


That God Would Be Forgiving

by calmlikesurrender



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Death, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rape, Rape/Non-con References, Suicide, oh and Jesus and God and Lucifer and angels and demons so yeah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-10-23
Packaged: 2017-11-24 03:26:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 49,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/629847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calmlikesurrender/pseuds/calmlikesurrender
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn falls asleep in Vegas and wakes up in Heaven.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's tagged for rape, but that won't happen for a while. Also there's pretty constant abuse. I'll be sure to make a note on the noncon chapter when it rolls around.

           Zayn falls asleep in Vegas and wakes up in Heaven.

           Or Purgatory, as bluntly explained by the large wooden sign hanging over the desk at the front of the small room.  _Purgatory_  in someone’s fine, blocky cursive.

            At the desk is a thin man in a wide-brimmed cowboy hat sorting papers into three different stacks.

            Just behind him on six crooked shelves are jars and jars of light. Zayn squints, but it’s still the same. In round little blobs, there’s every light he could think of. And even a few that don’t make sense- like the orb that’s bigger than the others that seems to somehow burn a deep black.

He’s not alone. There are at least a dozen other people in the room, but they all seem focused on some form in their laps, scribbling hastily page after page. Zayn’s just about to start panicking when a soft hand presses down on his thigh. It’s not until the touch that he realizes he was trembling.

            “It’s alright,” says a calm voice, and Zayn looks up into eyes the darkest blue he’s ever seen.

            “What is this?” because he feels like he has to ask. Even when Purgatory’s spelled out clearly, “Where the hell are we?”

            Instead of a reply, the man points up past the desk to a larger sign Zayn hadn’t noticed yet. In the same delicate letters were two words, this time in a pale pink-  _Angel Sorting_.

—

            The headmaster’s voice booms loud through the speakers. It’s terse and matter-of-fact, reading out the rules for the school term to an auditorium packed with children who’d given up on pretending to be listening about five minutes after he’d begun. Liam fumbles with the name tag his mother had stapled to his shirt just before they’d left for the bus stop.  _Liam Payne. Year one._

Liam’s stopped listening, too. But he still watches the headmaster- Mr. Ternigen. He imagines his entire body fits into the steady throb of his pinched, winded voice. Suit tight-fitted to his round torso like a second-skin, tie snug deep into the flabby folds beneath his chins. His light seems to mimic the same stature- hanging next to his hip, barely bobbing, maintaining the same almost stoic form. A ruddy brown like the tweed of his trousers.

            There’s a low rustling through the seats and when everyone stands, Liam stands with them. He’s not sure where to go, but a small hand on the back of his shoulder pushes him along. He turns to offer thanks to a boy a little taller than him, thin as a rail, who’s light is nestled into his mop of unruly brown curls.

            The boy only nods.

            They end up situated a few moments later with all of the other ten year old boys in the section nearest to the stage. He introduces himself and the boy offers his hand, “Harry.” The girls are just to their right.

            Some children let their lights sit on their shoulders, or play with them in their laps while they’re sorted into their classes, letting them dance between their fingertips, gasping when they dash straight through the skin of their wrists. Liam asks Harry afterward what that feels like. When they’re sitting in the back of their class, whispering under their breath while the boys in front stand and introduce themselves.

            Harry smiles.

            Whispers, “Magic, I think. Like if magic had a feeling.”

            When he gets home, his father’s drinking his usual after-work coffee, the paper spread out across the table in front of him. Liam goes up to his mother at the kitchen sink, tugs on the bottom of her skirt until she offers him a smile, rustles the top of his head the way he pretends to hate.

            “Mother,” he asks, “How did you get your light?”

            It’s not the first time his dad’s hit him. But it’s the first time it’s been hard enough to leave a bruise.

            When Liam goes to bed that night, his mother sits down on the edge and kisses his forehead.

            “Goodnight,” like always, and her light touches him too, gently nudging up against his side, then, “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

            He wants to ask what she means, just to hear her say it, but he knows already. It hadn’t felt so strange before, being at home and seeing his parents’ lights bob and stroke each other, scurry between his mother’s legs while she’s cooking or into the crook of his dad’s arm when he’s napping on the sofa.

            But being at school and seeing all of the other kids with their lights…

            There were a few like him who were all alone. But he can’t help but remember walking into the dimmed auditorium for the first time and seeing all those glowing orbs. Feeling the empty space around him more than ever. And then when Harry had said  _magic_  like that. Like it was the most amazing thing in the world?

            He fakes a yawn and his mother smiles, kisses him again. She whispers something he can’t quite make out into his hair and he closes his eyes but barely sleeps.

—

            It turns out dead people don’t need sleep. Or food. There’s a coffeemaker at the back of the room, though, rickety and teetering on its last breath, but Zayn manages to wean a cup out of it. There’s a single dingy paper cup on the table next to the coffeemaker, so that’s what Zayn uses. There’s night and day, sunsets and sunrises in Purgatory. . But he closes his eyes and he’s wide awake until he opens them again and goes on with his day of waiting.

            Now he holds his coffee close and shuts his eyes, lets the man rest his head on his shoulder while he rattles off about what Heaven’s like- he’d introduced himself as Louis just as soon as Zayn seemed less on the verge of a mental break down.

            They both can hear the man at the desk still steadily sorting papers, now into stacks as tall up as his neck.

            “Heaven’s everything you think it’s going to be and then a little more.”

            “Then why am I  _here_?” Zayn asks. If he’s stuck in death, he figures he’d much rather be in Heaven with harps and shit than in a damp room with a cold cup of coffee.

            Louis turns to stare back at him, seeming completely taken back by the question. He points to the sign again, then seems to let his finger fall to the strange balls of light in mason jars down beneath it.

            “We’re…We’re being Sorted,” he says slowly like he’s talking to a small child.

            Zayn almost screams. But he finds out quickly he can’t manage anything more than approaching an intense feeling before it slips away. Just in the beginning he’d gotten so close to sadness, so close, before being overwhelmed with a sense of morose finality. He slips back into it again now. Near-anger. Near-frustration. Then the complacent acceptance rushes in, hushes him somewhere deep down in his bones.

            Louis’ face scrunches up, “You didn’t sign up for Angel duty?”

            Zayn wants to laugh. God, he really wants to. He gets so close.

            “I fell asleep in my hotel room safe and sound, and woke up here. I was just lying down, enjoying myself. Being alive. And now I’m-”

            Before he can even finish his tired rant, Louis’ dragging him to the front of the room, to the man at the desk who’s wearing a name tag Zayn hadn’t even noticed before- Michael Lewicki III.

            “Michael,” Louis huffs out a breath, still holding tight to Zayn’s hand, “he didn’t sign up for angel duty.”

            The man doesn’t even look up, still sorting the papers slowly into stacks.

            “Name?” he asks in a low, southern drawl sounding every bit like an extra in some old Western.

            Louis answers for him.

            “Zayn.”

            “Full name?” Michael asks, the same bored tone.

            Louis looks to him and Zayn takes a step closer to the desk.

            “Zayn Malik,” he says and Michael looks up for the first time.

            He seems at a loss for words for a moment, his hand stills.

            “Malik?” he asks. Zayn nods.

            “Son, you’re a special order,” he says in his low southern drawl.

            Before Zayn can ask what that means, Michael’s digging in the drawer at his desk and taking out a large brown tin with a dead bolt lock. He sets it down, sighs, and then unlocks it with a bright yellow key from his right breast pocket.

            From inside, he lifts out an envelope, the dark red imprint of a dove sealing its mouth.

            “For you,” Michael says.

            Then when Zayn starts to open it right there, he puts a hand on Zayn’s wrist, looks to Louis beside him pointedly, “ _Only_  you.”

            In the corner of the room with the letter in his lap, he thinks if he was reading this on Earth, he’d probably be a mess. Probably be sloppily sobbing right about now.

            It doesn’t make sense. Which just makes him want to cry even harder. But he can’t quite manage sadness. It’s something more like a mild discomfort- looking at the form, the copied list of names. And at the top where it’s labeled Heaven, then rather bluntly stamped out with bright cherry red- REJECTED.

            Zayn doesn’t have to look far to find his name. It’s just a few down. Rebecca Stewart. Carla Ann Brown. Branden Sean Payne.  _Zayn Malik._

_—_

There are four books on the shelf in Liam’s family’s sitting room.

            One’s a photo album with just a single picture- a thin young man in a navy blue policeman’s uniform standing in front of a marble building with pillars so tall they fade right out of the frame. His hat’s tipped down a little, but you can still make out the small, proud smile. His hat’s barely covering a disheveled mess of sandy brown curls. Beside him is Liam’s dad, the happiest he’s ever seen him. He’s grinning so wide, hand on the other man’s shoulder. A thick wooden frame in his arms- It says Officer Payne in spindly cursive, but that’s all Liam can make out. He’d been curious one day and taken the photo out when his parents were sleeping. On the back, someone had written “ _happy brothers on Branden’s graduation day from Academy!_ ”. His uncle Branden had died just before Liam was born, and his dad never liked to talk about him much.

            The second is a coloring book Liam had half-finished when he was six or seven. It’s the same most kids have lying around somewhere- _Mommy, where do we go when we die?_

It’s only a few pages long. First, there’s the man lying in bed with his family all around him. Liam had colored him a bright green, long chunky strokes straight across his body. Then the man going to Heaven where he’s walking side-by-side with his angel, instead of them following him patiently as a ball of light. He gets to see Jesus and God and the Holy Spirit and on the last pages God asks him if he wants to help someone he loves back on Earth. The man says yes and then he’s back in his home, a bright beam of light over a little girl’s shoulder with thick braids and huge eyes.

            The third book is an old, battered copy of  _Les Miserables_.

            The fourth book is the instruction manual for Liam’s father’s electric toothbrush.

—

            Louis plops his head down on Zayn’s shoulder and tells him about how he’d hated it at first. How he wanted to go back to Earth so badly in the beginning after his car accident.

            “How’d you get over it?”

            “There’s just so much out there,” Louis says, “You spend half a century on Earth again and then you get an eternity to see everything you never even knew existed.”

            “Why am I here?” he asks, that word bright and eerie in the back of his mind- REJECTED, “Where do I go if I’m not allowed into Heaven? What happens when I’m done with my guarding duty then?”

            Louis stares back at him like he’s completely lost it. Then he must remember that Zayn’s clueless about Heaven’s intricacies.

            “Well, normally it’d mean you go to Hell,” he explains, “I mean, after all the Revelations stuff. But you’re an angel, so you can’t technically go to Hell. You’re probably going to go to Heaven after your first ward like everyone else.”  

            He smiles then, plucks Zayn’s cup from his hand and takes a few sips.

            Zayn doesn’t want to ask. But he  _has_  to. It eats at him. He hadn’t known there was a Hell. And now all of a sudden, there is one and he was supposed to go there..

“Louis, you said those other people… the ones who don’t get into Heaven? You said they go to Hell…”

            Louis nods slow, “Yeah… Where else would they go? Didn’t you see the code on the envelope?”

            Zayn shakes his head and Louis sighs.

            “They’re B-20s,” he says, “Suicides. That’s straight to Hell no questions asked.”

            “Really?”

            “Yeah, I know they teach it differently in school, but that’s how it works here. Suicide’s a through-and-through. Oh, and beastiality, too.”

            Zayn takes a sip. Wants to be annoyed or something, but can’t quite manage it. Damn Purgatory and its emotional shielding.

            “I don’t think I killed myself,” he says.

            Louis shrugs.

            “Must be why you’re in Sorting instead of being tortured for all eternity. Heaven made a mistake or something.”

            “I thought God was perfect.”

            Louis rolls his eyes, “God’s a spoiled little kid with too many fucking toys.”

—

            The next day Liam trades his ham sandwich for one of Harry’s mother’s chocolate chip cookies and when Harry points to the dark bruise just on Liam’s cheek, he only shrugs with his mouth full.

            Then later when their teacher is lecturing on Heaven, Harry scribbles a note and tosses it to Liam’s desk.

            He opens it slowly, watching the professor to be sure she doesn’t notice.

             _Dennis got his light today_  

            Liam scratches out a reply and tosses it back.

            To his surprise, the next note is carried over by Harry’s light. It drops the folded slip of paper into his lap, then nuzzles up to him until Liam pats him hesitantly. After a few moments, he flutters back, but not before the teacher notices.

            “Mr. Payne?”

            It’s all he can do to swallow and nod, feeling all of the class turn to face him.

            She sets her hands on her wide hips and her light snaps out with each word like it’s trying to accentuate her annoyance. It’s balanced by her head, a burning gold like lava.

            “Since your light seems to be more interesting than my class-”

            Harry’s small, dreamy voice cuts her off.

            “That’s my light, ma’am,” he corrects with his hand in the air.

            Her irritation seems to dim a little, but she still turns to Liam with her lips in a tight line.

            “And where is your light then? Since you seem so fond of Mr. Styles’?”

            Before Liam can even blush and manage a reply, a small voice he doesn’t recognize cuts in. An accent so strange he’s sure he would have remembered it. The boy turns to the teacher. Next to his blond hair is an orb that’s just as bright, bigger than Harry’s and constantly moving, fidgeting like it’s full of pent-up energy.

            “He doesn’t have one, ma’am,” he says and Liam’s sure they must have all known this already. Still, it seems as if every eye in the room is on him again. Studying him up and down like they’re trying to see where he’s hiding his light away.

            After that, the teacher is oddly subdued. She doesn’t even say a word when Liam reads Harry’s reply a few minutes later even though he’s hardly trying to hide it. And when class is over and they all gather their things hurriedly, she watches him go with a look that’s so somber, laced with concern and pity.

            When he gets home, he waits for his father to get in the shower before asking his mother why they teach about Heaven in school and not about angels.

            She presses her finger to his chest.

            “You can’t teach it. It’s in you already,” she says, her light set on top of her hands, radiating a familiar refreshing coolness that Liam can feel through the thin fabric of his shirt.

            He wants to tell her that he’s the only boy in his class without an angel yet, that he’s afraid she’s mistaken and there’s actually something wrong, but he hears the water cut off in the bathroom upstairs and busies himself with homework instead.

            When they’re sat around the dinner table an hour later, his father asks him what he learned in school today. He recites the seven pillars of Humanity without a problem, but stumbles over Heaven’s.

            His father studies him, calm composure easily slipping into disgust. He sips the last of his wine, and gets up from the table to put his dishes in the sink without a word. When his mother reaches for Liam’s plate, his father jerks her hand away.

            “He’ll stay,” he says simply, “Until he can say them all.”

            And when his father comes down the stairs two hours later, Liam’s still sitting there at the table. His father asks him again.

            Liam just makes something up, avoiding his eyes, hands fidgeting in his lap.

            Once he’s done, his father’s stern gaze drips sticky and wet all over him, coats his throat.

            “You’re worthless,” he says, calm demeanor never faltering.

            Liam nods, starts to get up. He knows that word. It’s usually his cue to leave. Then his parents will start arguing and he’ll lie in bed until one of them comes to apologize.

            When he was younger, his dad would always come.

            Now it’s usually his mother, but his father has a few times. Mostly, he stands in the doorway and watches him- only when he’s had a little too much to drink. He’ll say sorry eventually, leaning by his bed, but with his lips to Liam’s ear, he always calls him Branden.

            “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong,” his father says, watching him so steady.

            “I’m sorry.”

            His gaze burns into Liam’s skin, “So am I.”

—

            There’s stiffness between Zayn’s shoulder blades.

            He tells Louis when their backs are pressed to the cave wall. It’s damp. Not cold really. He doesn’t exactly feel cold anymore.

            Louis shrugs.

            “Your wings are coming in.”

            Zayn’s not sure if  he’s joking or not, “I thought we were balls of light.”

            He sips his tepid coffee when the city burns to life. Just past their perch, the mouth of a little cave on the side of a mountain, beyond a forest of the tallest trees he’s ever seen. He remembers watching The Little Mermaid with his younger sisters at night before bed. The way the lost city still burned somehow even underwater. Towers and pillars and ink splotches of dark blue.  _Heaven’s like that_ , Louis had promised him, leading Zayn up to the second highest slope to watch the sun set behind God’s home in the distance.

            “You still have to fly, right?”

            On the way back, he asks Louis when he’ll meet God.

            The Sorting building is just close enough that they can make out the chapel, the marbled dome where Michael says there used to be a massive bell made of pure silver.

            “You met him already,” Louis tells him, “When you die, there’s this moment and it’s so fast and it’s right after it all stops hurting. God’s the one who takes your hand.”

            Zayn takes another sip of his coffee. Wonders how it’s lasted this long without a refill.

            “I was asleep, though. When do I meet him when I’m conscious?”

            Louis turns to him, mouth a hard line, tense and clipped.

            “You have to meet Jesus first.” He says it like there’s nothing he’d like to do less.

            Zayn presses. Mainly to cleanse the air.

            “Then when do I meet Jesus?”

            “After the Holy Spirit,” Louis says, “but you probably don’t want to. She’s kind of a bitch.”

—

Liam’s not even sure how it happens. One second he’s standing there, holding his soda. His dad’s presence almost forgettable while he’s staring at the gorillas. At the largest one mainly. Liam imagines he’s probably taller than his father, and twice as scary.

            The next second he’s spilling soda everywhere. He tries to hide it, but his dad’s on him soon after, staring down at his ruined clothes like they’re dripping with blood.

            He drags him off before he can tell his teacher that he’s leaving. Then when his dad’s grip gets so tight, it’s painful, he’s so frustrated. With himself mostly, and then he starts to cry and he’s so upset that he’s crying, it only makes him cry more. He can’t hear what his father’s saying, but he’s sure he could guess.

—

Zayn opens his eyes and there’s a girl standing over him. She’s tapping her foot.

            “Hey,” her voice is almost a whisper, “It’s your day, man.”

            With that, she walks off toward the desk where Louis is standing as well, chatting with Michael, pointing to the jars that are sat on his desk- three little blobs.

            Zayn fills his coffee up before heading over.

            “Okay,” Michael says the moment he comes to stand beside Louis, “It’s your third death day. You get to see a few prospects, alright? The limit’s five.”

            Before he can ask what he means by prospects, Louis whispers into his ear.

            “Your wards,” he says, “the people you might be guarding.”

            Zayn nods, takes a sip, wonders why the jars are there and why the girl is still beside them.

            “I don’t need five,” he tells Michael, “I’m just going for my little sister. She doesn’t have an angel yet.”

            With a tert nod, he hands Zayn a piece of paper, “That’s well and fine, son, but we’ve got a minimum of three policy. You could go for a random member of your karass if you want. Heck, you could go for Britney Spears for all I care, but you’d finna get in line.”

            “What’s the paper for then?” Zayn asks. It’s thicker than what he’d thought. And darker, too. Almost like the parchment paper stuff he’d seen his teacher use in art when he was a kid. There’s nothing on it, but three long lines right in the middle.

            “And what are these for?” he asks before anyone can respond, pointing to the three jars sat up on Michael’s desk between the stacks of paper he’s always sorting. They’re smaller now, like he’s started over.

            Louis beams and leans down so Zayn does too, until they’re eye-level with the mason jars and can make out the colors better. A bright, happy orange that bobs up and down and twirls around in and out of itself. A soft, almost ephemeral silver. And the last one Zayn stares at, feeling a little breathless. It’s the darkest black he’s ever seen, almost  _consuming._ Unlike the others, it barely moves. Only hovers in place, the largest light by far.

            Louis takes his hand, “I helped Michael pick them out for you,” he says, still smiling.

            “For what?”

            “To see which one’s your soul.”

            Zayn puts a hand to his chest, feels suddenly… empty.

            “Isn’t it in me?” he whispers.

            “It was. When you die, you’re just a shell. If you go to Heaven, you keep it. If you’re Sorted, they hold onto it for you.”

            He nods, eyes never leaving the darkest light. Feeling drawn to it somehow. It’s like just kneeling there, bathed in the shadow of its light, for the first time since he’s been in Purgatory he feels like he could cry if he wanted to. Or get angry. Or annoyed. Or feel hunger or thirst. There are pinpricks on his skin whenever he pulls his hand away a little.

            “How will I know?” he asks Louis even though it seems so clear.  _It’s this one_ , he wants to say, hoping that it truly is.

            Louis points to the paper in Zayn’s hand, “You’ll see. Write down your names.”

            It takes him a moment to understand, but then he’s writing Waliyah Malik down on the top line. He pauses after that, though, not sure who to write next.

            “It can be someone random,” Michael says, and the girl finally talks again.

            “I chose the lady who always rings me up at the grocery store.”

            “Who  _are_  you?”

            She smiles, shoves out her hand, “Eleanor. I’m Louis’ ex-girlfriend.”

            When Zayn still pauses, Louis smiles at him.

            “You don’t need names,” he says, then adds rather ominously, “God knows.”

            Zayn ends up writing, “man who sold me my car” on the second line and, “Heather Something who gave me that world class blow job at Matt’s party last year”.

            The moment he’s done, the words seem to start moving. He blinks, rubs at his eyes, not sure if he’s really seeing it or not.

            But, no, they morph together, letter by letter, becoming a jumble of dark ink on the page just in the center. And once they’re a slimy blob, they start to glow, lighter and lighter, and inch up right off the parchment.

            He jerks back, but Louis reaches for him.

            The ink splotch hovers there over the jars like it’s trying to choose. Then slowly it starts to spill over into the jar with the black light.

            “That’s you,” Louis says, and Zayn lets out the breath he was holding, “I knew it.”

            With the jar in his hands a few minutes later, he’s holding his breath again.

            Michael tells him to think about something happy and he remembers Louis’ breath on the side of his neck and then he’s on Earth again.

            It’s different. Weird, really, if he’s being honest.

            Everything seems to be bathed in a strange grayish light. He’s not even really sure where to look, there are so many people around. Hundreds, it seems, all trudging slowly through the.. whatever it is.

            It takes him a second or two, but he realizes it’s the zoo. Then he sees his little sister.

            She’s curled up in his mother’s arms, this tiny pink bundle with wide eyes. His mother’s got her close to her chest, cradling her tight, laughing loud, pointing off to the cage and whispering low to her.

Just behind his mum and sister at the gorilla pens, Zayn can see a little boy with tears in his eyes.

            He almost turns back, almost ignores it, before he realizes something strange and watches instead. Through the fuzzy haze that seems to coat everything, he can see him wiping roughly at his eyes, trying to wipe his tears away. He’s… darker than everyone else.

            Not even his skin, though. It’s everything about him, his khakis, his little white polo. Even standing under the unflinching gaze of the afternoon sun, he seems to be cast in a shadow that covers every inch of his body. When he takes a step forward, to a man with his arms across his chest- his dad perhaps- the shadow follows him.

            The boy’s dad grabs him by his elbow, digs his nails in, yanks him away with whispered hisses.

            “Liam,” he hears, then the chatter of people milling about drowns him out, “…your problem is…Worthless. Fucking…worthless. I don’t get-”

            The last thing Zayn notices before he’s sent to see his next ward is the woman following silently behind the boy- Liam, he’d called him- and his dad.

            She keeps a lazy pace, seemingly unconcerned with what’s happening in front of her, thick dark curls falling past her narrow shoulders, her dark skin almost eerily smooth like it’s made from clay.

            Her dress is as black as tar and laps at her bony ankles with each leisurely step.

            It’s strange, her complacency. But that’s now what makes him pause. What makes him spend his last seconds meant for his sister, on a stranger and his dad and a woman trailing close behind.

            It’s the way her shadow falls forward, stretches around Liam, seems to coat him. When under the high sun, everyone else’s shadows fall behind them. Hers is dark and almost  _thick_ , like if Liam had tried to run away it would have sulked after him, all consuming.

            It’s the way the zoo is packed with people, young and old. Hundreds, lost in their own worlds, and Liam and the woman are the only without lights.

            It’s the way everyone else skirts around Zayn almost subconsciously avoiding where he’s standing. The way they look at the ground, or busy themselves with their phones, but she stares right into his eyes.

—

            “It’s not a clean break, Mr. Payne. The bone’s…shattered. Not broken. I mean, I’ve only ever seen this once and it was from something significantly more gruesome than a football fumble.”

            If they’re trying to whisper, Liam thinks, they’re doing an absolutely shit job. He’s lying in the hard hospital bed with his arm in a cast. He feels all loopy after the drugs the nurse had given him, but he can still make out everything the doctor’s telling his parents in the hall, a thin stream of light peaking into his dark room.

            His father’s voice is oozing anger. Liam can tell, even without seeing him, that his hands are shoved deep in his pockets. That he’s staring at the doctor like he’s grown a third eye.

            “What are you implying?” he says and Liam’s mother makes a soft sound of protest.

            “No, Karen, let the doctor explain.”

            “Sir, I’m only saying that there may be-”

            “ _May_ ,” his dad hisses, he can hear his mother whisper, “ _Geoff, please_ ” so low, “I’m paying an awfully large amount of money for maybes, don’t you think?”

            There’s the distinct sound of papers rustling then his dad huffs out a breath.

            “Is he staying the night here or can we take him home?”

            “With the extent of his injury, I think it’d be best if we kept him overnight. Just to monitor his pain level, and to-”

            “Then we’re leaving. Now.”

            No one speaks for almost a full minute, then his mother clears her throat.

            “I actually wanted to make sure he was okay,” she says, barely above a whisper, “just to say goodnight.”

            Liam doesn’t have to see his dad. He knows he’s seething. Probably wishing they were home so he could say what he really wants to. Instead he says, “Fine. I’ll be in the car,” then after a long pause, “Don’t make me wait.”

            They wait until his dad’s steps are just tiny taps down the hall, and Liam holds his breath.    

            “How is he?” his mother says, “Please. I need to know.”

            The doctor sighs, papers shuffling again.

            “You don’t go an entire day with your arm like that, Mrs. Payne. You just… don’t. I’m honestly trying to wrap my brain around it.”

            He laughs, but it’s this exasperated sound, low and rough.

            “You said shattered…” his mother says hesitantly.

            “I meant it. I could show you the x-rays if you’d like. There were  _splinters_ , ma’am. That he didn’t pass out, frankly, is-” his voice fades out then,

            Liam wants to sit up, tell them that he  _had_  passed out. He’d been in the bathroom, struggling, gasping, his eyes blown, trying to catch his breath. Then everything went black and he woke up on the bathroom floor with his head throbbing and dried blood in his nostrils.

            He’d been scared, though. No, not even scared. Terrified. It was why he’d waited so long to say something, until he’d been lying in bed biting back tears and finally couldn’t take it anymore. He’d walked to his parents’ room with his entire body trembling.

            His mother never comes to say goodnight.

            When he’s drifting off to sleep, he hears two soft voices near his bed. One sounds like the nurse who’d been with him before. The other isn’t familiar at all.

            “He’s nearly  _eleven_!” she whispers.

            The other voice responds hesitantly, “Without a light yet?”

            There are two short tsks. “Someone should have come for him. With an  _accident_  like this…”

            “Brandy, don’t,” the other says, voice almost a hiss, “It’s not your place. You want to lose your job? You have to trust God. This’ll get worked out. These sorts of things always do.”

Neither says a word for a while, then the first nurse- Brandy- sighs, “You’re probably right. Yeah.”

            Liam sleeps like death.

            Dreams that he’s lying on a boat in the middle of the ocean. It’s so bright and he’s on fire. As far as he can see, there’s nothing but open water. The boat rocks and he feels ill, throws up and it’s thick and dark blue. A policeman’s cap, a tiny gold badge sewn into the brim- _Liam Payne_.  _A bullet for a bullet._

_—_

The room’s full, overflowing with people when Zayn opens his eyes. He and Louis are sitting back against the wall by Micheal’s desk. Eleanor is lying across the floor, bobbing her head slowly to some song in her head. She’s humming low. Every few seconds people are being called out. The moment someone leaves, their jar is replaced on the shelf with another and then someone else is called. It’s like that for what seems like hours, angel after angel going off to their wards.

            Zayn’s too distracted to pay attention, even though he feels like he should. That’ll be him someday soon, after all.

            But all he can think about his sister, the warm cradle of his mother’s arms. How her dark hair had been combed back, wearing the powder pink bow Zayn had bought her when she turned six months old.

            It makes absolutely no sense.

            He’d been in Vegas when he died. Matt’s bachelor party. That meant he was almost twenty-two. And Waliyah was nearly five.

            But he’d seen her as a baby, and his mother’s hair fell down past her shoulders, a waterfall of pitch black without a single streak of silver that he knew should have been there at the roots near her temple.

            He starts to ask Louis but then someone else is called, a woman with a dark grey shirt and no shoes, and more after her, a steady stream so he doesn’t have another chance to ask until it’s so much later. Eleanor’s gone somewhere he doesn’t know and it’s just them and Michael in Sorting, lying back on the far side of the room, passing the dingy paper cup back and forth. Louis’ head is on Zayn’s shoulder like it always seems to be.

            “My sister’s five,” he says and Louis traces circles into Zayn’s thighs.

            “Yeah? ‘S cool.”

            “No,” Zayn says, “I mean, she’s five now. But when I got to see her, she was a baby.”

            Louis just nods.

            “It’s death-time,” he says like it’s supposed to explain something.

            When Zayn’s silent for a while, Louis sighs.

            “Alright, death-time and life-time are different. On Earth, you died a few months ago maybe. You’ve only been here a couple of days.”

            “How does that-”

            Louis changes from circles to squares, near his knee now.

            “It doesn’t make sense unless you’re God or something, but that’s how it is. You saw your sister and she was a baby, but you could see her tomorrow and she’ll be a teenager. Or a few days from now and she’ll still be in your mum’s belly. Time’s not a straight line. You’re with your ward already somewhere and then a few hours from now you’re still not,” he pauses, “The waiting’s the worst, though. You’re in Sorting for a few seconds. You’re in Purgatory for the rest of your existence.”

            “Holy time travel,” he mutters and Louis laughs.

            “Yeah, I guess. I mean, I hear when you’re down there everything makes perfect sense again, though. Like, the moment you see your ward it’s all clear and bright and smiles or whatever.”

            It’s another few hours before Zayn speaks again. Louis’ about as close to asleep as they can get, dozing away, drooling on his shoulder.

            “Louis?”

            “Hmm..”

            “How do you know so much about all of this stuff?”

            He shifts a little, curls his arm tighter around Zayn’s torso.

            “I’m just nosy,” he mumbles, “and angels and demons talk a lot when they don’t think anyone’s listening.”

—

            Liam likes Harry because he doesn’t ask questions.

            And he smiles constantly. When Liam asks if he can stay the night. When he gets an exam back and it’s failing. When his light is tired and fades to a dull grey and sinks down to his feet, tucking itself into the laces of his shoes like it’s settling in for a nap.

            He only falters once. When they’re at the beach for Niall’s thirteenth birthday party and Liam asks him how he got his light.

            He knows it’s rude, too personal, too invasive- but he and Harry share everything. He’d told Harry how he really crushed his arm, nearly laughing when Harry’d broken down then and needed Liam to comfort  _him_. He’d called Harry when he’d gotten home from his first real party, smiling and cringing his way through the recollection of his first kiss. He’d called Harry after the first real fight with his dad, spending the rest of the night making their way through Harry’s old comic books and Harry’d pretended not to notice the bruise forming just below Liam’s jaw, the way he gasped, sucking in a wheezing breath when he grabbed his forearm.

            But when Liam asks him, lying out on the sand, pointing to the blob of misty light hovering in lazy circles over his best friend’s shoulder, Harry frowns.

            For a moment Liam thinks he’s not going to answer. He almost hopes he won’t- afraid of what he might say.

            Eventually, Harry cups his palms and his light sprints to his hands right away, nuzzles up close to him, lets Harry run a thumb over it. Even with the sound of all the other people on the beach, the life guard’s insistent whistle when some boys get too rough, he can hear it purring in Harry’s hands, a soft gentle sound that makes him feel ill.

            “His name’s Louis,” Harry says.

            “Louis?”

            “Yeah,” his smile’s back again, but barely, “I don’t think I ever told you that.”

            Then he lets it go, puts his hands out and watches as his light bounds up slowly, twining lazily through the air above their heads. Every so often people will pass and their lights will approach Harry’s gingerly, cautious touches for the briefest of moments- both fading into one of the other’s colors, a fiery orange, a crystalline blue, a purple so deep it’s almost black.

            Harry takes a slow breath, looking more serious than Liam’s ever seen him.

            “I was nine-”

—

Zayn opens his eyes and Louis’ nowhere to be found.

            He stands, stretches his legs, and heads over to Michael’s desk.

            When he asks if he’s seen Louis, Michael shakes his head.

            “He likes to pray sometimes over near the springs. Maybe d’ya wanna go on and check there.”

            Since Zayn doesn’t have a clue where the springs are, he offers to help Michael instead. Sits down at his desk and starts to sort the papers like he’s seen Michael do over and over.

            After a few minutes he asks him how he knows when to send people to their wards.

            Michael shrugs, leans back a little.

            “I get a notice, says the name and the time. I call ‘em and send ‘em on their way. You know how it goes,” he says, “It’s just how they tell ya’. When your life’s on the line, your angel steps in. The moment you’re seeing the light.”

            “I wasn’t sure,” Zayn says, “There’s so much I didn’t know about all of this. So much they didn’t tell me. I didn’t know if that was true or not.”

            Michael moves a paper back to a different stack, smiles when Zayn mumbles an apology.

            “’S no problem, son.”

            When Louis’ back Zayn doesn’t ask him where he’s been and Louis doesn’t offer to tell him.

—

“You ever wonder why it’s so bad? Like to _know_? I mean, so what if you get your grandma instead of your favorite aunt or whatever?”

            The last part’s there, laced delicately between his words. He doesn’t have to say it. Harry knows-  _At least you have one._

“My mum said I look just like my uncle Bran. She said my dad told her that one time,” Liam says quietly, looking away.  

“I thought I was gonna have my nan,” Harry says honestly, “I thought she’d definitely choose me. She didn’t have any children, you know, and… I don’t know, I was just a kid. Everything feels so real and concrete when you’re nine.”

            “You’re fourteen,” Liam says, “It’s not that far from nine.”

            “Feels like a century.”

-

            “Where are we if Heaven’s all the way out there somewhere?” Zayn asks.

            Louis nestles closer to him on the floor.

            “We’re in Purgatory right now. Purgatory’s New York,” he says with his eyes closed, “Heaven’s New York City.”

_-_

Harry sits up on his elbows. Turns to Liam and nods to his light. It flutters over to the bed lazily. Nudges Liam’s arm, the crook of his elbow where it’s all black and blue. He’s cool to the touch and Liam shivers, pulls back a little.

            Harry reaches for his hand.

            “Liam, this is going to sound so fucking mental, but I-” he hesitates, sits up, crossing his legs. His light drifts down into his lap, glows a dusty auburn when Harry strokes him gently- “Liam, I think I love him.”

-

            “What about Hell? Is Hell a city in the middle of some big scary burning country?”

            Louis reaches for Zayn’s coffee. Drinks the last bit.

            “Yeah, Hell’s the eye of the storm. But what makes you think it’s burning?”

-

            “I don’t think it works like that,” Liam tells him, lying back, eyes closed. Suddenly he feels alone. Really alone.

            And it’s not as if he has anything to base it on, but he’s pretty sure having a crush on your light is at least taboo, if not a sin or something.

            Besides, love is so raw. It’s for when you want to get married to someone and have children and move in together and make each other breakfast. Kids don’t fall in love.

            “I do,” Harry says, looking at Liam, oddly determined.

            “You’ve never even kissed anyone before,” Liam says because it seems logical, “How could you be in love?”

            Harry seems to hesitate then. Even his light dims a little.

            But in another instant, he’s smiling again.

            He picks his light up and leans in closer to Liam.

            “I love you, too,” he says quietly.

            Liam rolls his eyes.

            “You don’t get to have that much love,” he says, “It’s too exhausting. You won’t have room for anything else.”

            Harry picks his light up and plops it down on the top of his head.

            “What else would I need?” he asks, and Liam doesn’t say a word.

—

            The next time Louis takes Zayn out, they walk in the opposite direction than when they’d gone to see Heaven. Instead of slippery slopes, they trudge through grass that’s the color of wheat and the tips come nearly to his hip. He puts his hands out and lets them tickle his palms, half-listening to Louis’ calm chatter, half memorizing every detail to file away for later.

            They’re going to see the springs.

            Zayn’s not sure what to expect, but he follows to stretch his legs. To have a little time, open air, to think things through. Mainly, he’s thinking about Waliyah and the way his mother had smiled.

            But there’s still that image under the surface of a bitter chill like ice coursing down his spine. A shadow following that boy down the street, looming over him. The way he seemed so accustomed to his dad’s grip and biting words.

            They come to the edge of the flatlands and Louis takes his hand, walks him through a line of scraggly trees with wide black leaves. There are soft sounds all around them. The patter of insects, birds, creatures nesting where they can’t see. His shoes sink into the moist earth. He can feel the tiny beads of sweat on his back and neck, the humid air taking its toll.

            After a few minutes, he spots a break in the trunks and branches. Louis speeds up a little and they come to a narrow path, framed on either side by massive stones so far up he can’t see to the top of them. Just further he’s met with the soft sound of trickling water. It grows, echoes off the rocks and even seems to echo around right in his ribs.

—

            “Your dad and I love you very much,” his mother says and Liam nods.

            He blows out his candles and eats a slice of cake. His mother hands him two gifts. One’s a bible, black leather with his name engraved near the bottom. The other’s a football.

—

            “If everyone gets an angel, shouldn’t there be more… uhm, dead people… here? I mean, if there’s one for every living person, right?”

            Zayn’s voice trails off, but Louis seems to know what he’s trying to say. Before he can respond, though, the girl’s there in front of him. Eleanor. Louis’ ex.

            “This isn’t the only Sorting room,” she says.

            “There are others?”

            Louis cuts her off before she can say whatever it is she’s going to.

            “There are thousands, hundreds of thousands even. All over.”

            Just after that, Michael calls three names. They all gather to see them off.

            Later, when the room’s nearly cleared and they’re sitting in the back on the floor alone, Louis traces stars into the palm of Zayn’s hand.

            “There’s a different Sorting room for the different people and how they die. It’s really complicated actually, but that’s it basically. By how you die, and where, and how old you are, and who your ward’s gonna be.”

            Zayn wants to kiss him.

            He’s listening, he’s honestly listening. But there’s still this weird urge to lean in a little. He swallows hard and tries to think of every gross thing he’s ever seen so he doesn’t do anything stupid.

            “But how is it sorted by wards?” he asks, “How do they know who you’re gonna choose to guard?”

            Louis’ fingers stop short.

            “God knows.”

—

           He kisses Harry for the first time on the front porch and he’s not even sure why. One minute they’re staring off, watching Niall and a few other neighborhood boys kicking a ball back and forth on the lawn. Their lights tangling lazily above their heads whenever they get too close.

            The next minute he’s leaning in and then Harry is too.

—

            “Mermaids?”

            Louis nods.

            “Dragons?”

            He nods again, albeit after clearing his throat rather loudly and sucking in a deep breath. Zayn makes a mental note to ask for elaboration on that point. For now, he only trudges on. His jar is sitting in his lap. When he’d asked Michael if he could hold it, there was an almost palpable hush about the room as if everyone was suddenly paying very close attention.

            “I just want to see it,” he’d promised, “I swear I won’t open it.”

            Hesitantly, Michael had let him, then others had wanted theirs as well. So here they were. A room full of people sitting around in clumps on the floor, clasping their souls close to them, staring through the glass at their colors, maybe wondering if there’s something to be solved in the way they react to their voices. How some seem to sulk and drag. Others, like Louis’, bolt around, shaking and dancing, jolting every time Louis laughs, shining so bright he has to tuck it under his shirt before Michael can see and take it away. But Zayn’s is the darkest and the largest. It hovers there, a regal smudge as dark as tar.

            “Witches?” Zayn asks and Louis rolls his eyes but nods again. It goes like that for the rest of the night. Zayn trying to think of everything he’d ever thought was insane and incredible when he was a kid and Louis telling him whether it’s real or not.

_—_

            It’s the second day of their fifth term and Liam’s teacher is absent.

            The headmaster comes in to speak with their class.

            Following behind him is a man a little taller, decidedly thinner, with a kind smile and the bluest eyes Liam’s ever seen. So blue they make his light, a bright searing green hanging over his shoulder, look like faded moss. The dead leaves out on the lawn his dad always pays the younger neighborhood boys to rake.

            “This change is… indefinite,” the headmaster says and everyone nods, though Liam hasn’t the faintest clue what indefinite really means and is almost certain none of the others do either.

            “In her stead, we have the honor of Greg Horan’s presence.”

            Liam thinks that name sounds familiar and sure enough Niall jumps out of his seat, whooping in his loud, proud Irish drawl.

            The headmaster’s pudgy face turns a little pink. Then blood-red when the entire class proceeds to laugh and mimic his cat-calling.

            Greg Horan, to his professional credit, tries very hard to hide his smile.

            “Yes, Niall’s older brother will be filling in,” the headmaster says, clearing his throat loudly once the ruckus has started to die down, “He’s a true veteran of higher education. The lost arts, you see, one of the school’s most decorated alumni.”

            He makes a pointed glance in Niall’s direction and he sits down, but not before shooting his brother a thumbs up that he returns quickly when the headmaster’s not looking.

            Once Greg’s settled, leaning on the edge of their teacher’s old desk, he asks them to tell him what they learned the day before.

            Mostly, it’s followed by everyone trying to see just how gullible he is.

            Not very, it seems, as he shoots down every attempt at giving them a lesson that involves basically sitting around and doing nothing. Most come directly from his younger brother, Niall.

            Eventually, they come to a mutual decision to make his first day as mellow as possible. He tells them to take out pieces of paper and to jot down a question at the top.

            There are scattered groans once they do, surely expecting a trick- the question just seems too easy.

            “It’s just a way for me to take role,” he insists, “And to learn your names when you pass them in. We don’t have much time before lunch after all.”

            Once they’ve all left, he gathers the papers together and flips through them. In the stack of exams are two dozen single-word answers, all mostly the same.

            Except for the last one. Missing the assured answers of the rest of the class, the telltale sign of having a fact fed to you slowly and gently from the moment you’re born. A stick-thin, sloppily written response:

             **Where do we go when we die?**

             _Heaven?_

_—_

Louis hands Zayn a clipboard and a new mug.

            It’s Avengers, cracked a little on the edge where Captain America’s shield is raised up above his head. Still, he just about splits his face in two with a smile, dragging Louis into a rib-crushing hug just after he tosses his old paper cup in the trash.

            “Where’d you get it?” He asks later, sipping his luke-warm coffee from his new mug. He makes sure to put his lips just where Thor’s face is, silently wishing there was a sulky Loki just behind him to make it even more perfect.

            Louis’ staring down at the clipboard in his lap. He shrugs, but Zayn can see him smiling through the bangs falling in his face.

            “I  _found_  it,” he says, glancing up quickly to wink at Zayn, turn to Michael’s desk for a second, then back down at the form. He’s on the second page, going slowly, taking his time. Zayn’s on the sixth. Just where he’s supposed to list why he’s interested in being a guardian angel, as opposed to the five other rankings. Since he’s not really even sure what the other rankings  _are_ and the guardian decision was made for him, he’s decided to take a break from all the paperwork.

            “You stole it?” he goads teasingly, then whispers, “ _Isn’t that a sin_?”

            Louis thrusts his pen out at him, a poorly-executed frown on his face. It’s clear he’s not used to anything but a smile or maybe the occasional tight line of concern.

            “Found. Besides, demons can’t drink anyway. She won’t be needing it.”

            That stops him short.

            “You went to Hell?!” he whispers, more of a shriek really, leaning into him, “I thought angels couldn’t go to Hell?”

            Louis flips the page, settles more into his chair.

            “Angels  _can’t_ ,” he says, “I didn’t go to Hell. She came here. Demon’s hang out in Purgatory all of the time.”

            “And you just take stuff from them?” Zayn asks, eyes wide.

            He’s imagining these hulking, massive shadows. Black cloaks as dark as night and long, bony fingers with pale grey skin. Then Louis standing there, tapping his foot, asking how much they want for the coffee mug.

            “We trade with them, yeah,” he says, “How do you think we got the coffeemaker in here?”

            “But what do you give them?” Zayn asks, “What do evil things want? Money? The blood of virgins?”

            Louis’ voice drops even lower. He scoots closer to Zayn so their faces are nearly touching.

            “Time,” he whispers, “sometimes if they like you a lot, maybe a little pick-me-up, but usually just time. A few minutes here and there.”

            “Minutes?”

            Louis looks up at him, rolls his eyes.

            “You know, your afterlife-ignorance is becoming a bit of a killjoy,” then by means of an explanation, he adds, “Demons have quotas to fill, babe. It’s not all fun and roses and shit.”

            Zayn fills out the rest of his form except for the last line- “ _Intended ward_ ”. Michael tells him that as soon as he’s sure he can have his form back and then he’ll just wait for the call.

—

            Harry insists.

            Liam’s unsure.

            He wants to. He really does. But skipping school never works out well. Your light always gives you away. Harry promised his light wouldn’t object, and that they had a better chance anyway since there was just the one instead of two, and he  _really_  wants to go to the concert in the park.

            When they’re caught, they call both of their moms, but Liam’s can’t be reached so they call his dad at work instead.

            They sit in the headmaster’s office. Liam’s never seen Harry’s mother, but he thinks he’d like her probably if she wasn’t so upset right now. Even through that, though, she only seems disappointed. Not murderous like his father. He’s gripping the arms on his chair so tight, Liam’s afraid the wood just might shatter in his fist.

            When he comes to school the next day, he can barely walk.

            Harry offers him answers when they take their exam, and Liam accepts the apology even though they’re often wrong. But when he gets his grade back at the end of the day, it’s a perfect score. At the bottom of the page in curvy glittery purple pen is Greg’s name and number-  _I can help_. He tears it up on the way home and watches it drift down into the gutter.

—

            When Michael goes off to stretch his legs, he leaves Louis in charge.

            Sitting behind his desk, he looks to Zayn and puts his finger to his lips.

            Sorting’s practically empty today- just the two of them and a little girl named Candy with her mother. He checks to make sure they’re not looking, then pulls out the brown tin from Michael’s desk drawer.

            There’s a wad of paper in the corner that Louis plucks out right away. He takes out a stack of envelopes, too. He ruffles through them until his eyes light up and he drags one from the others.

            He tucks it into his pocket with the crumpled paper, and when Michael comes back, they see Candy and her mother off.

            Candy tears up a little, but her mother kisses her cheeks.

            “Be good, okay?”

            Michael nods to her, “See ya, Candy, darlin’. Good luck with John.”

            Then her mother goes and Michael nods again, “Good luck with Paula.”

            Zayn and Louis sit in the back of the room, curled up against each other. Louis hands Zayn the envelope when Michael starts sorting his papers again.

            He drops his head on Zayn’s shoulder like always and sighs.

            “I had to pay that demon like fifteen minutes for that paper, babe, so I hope you’re happy.”

            Zayn wants to ask him when they got comfortable enough for pet names, but he remembers suddenly that they drink from the same cup constantly and doesn’t mention it. Instead he watches Louis open his paper.

            He’s not sure what to expect.

            It’s just a nearly-blank page, though. Dead center is written Harry Styles, then beneath it are three lines, the top two are crossed out-  _Portia Styles_  and  _Mrs. Annie Lynn_. Under those, with a bright green check mark next to it, is  _the man on the bus with the nice smile_.

            “That’s me!” Louis says proudly, pointing to the last line.

            Zayn wants to ask why he’s so happy to have some random kid he met on the bus once as his ward, but decides against it. Instead he opens his letter.

            There are two pages inside. He takes out the first and smiles.

            Waliyah Malik. There are four names beneath it. Two are their grandparents. One’s her old babysitter. The other’s  _Zayn Malik_.

            He takes out the other. It’s the same paper, same layout. Except when Zayn sees the name right in the middle, he nearly chokes on his coffee.

            Liam Payne.

            Louis’ smiling so big he’s probably going to need surgery, staring up at Zayn with this strange mix of smugness and genuine happiness.

            “Read ‘em!” he practically hisses.

            Unlike Louis’ wards, there are only two lines beneath Liam’s name.

            One says Branden Payne with a question mark next to it.

            The other says  _someone waiting to make a choice_.

            Louis’ voice is so soft beside him, “That’s you, babe.”

            Louis strokes his arm, “See? He’s got someone. This Branden guy.”

            Zayn sighs, but it doesn’t sit well in his chest.

            “Why’s there a question mark next to it?” He’s thinking about that grip on his arm, about the boy’s eyes. Who’s Branden and why does that name sound so fucking familiar? And why hasn’t he helped?

            Louis shrugs.

            “I don’t know, maybe he’s not dead yet or something. I’d ask Michael, but you know… Then he’d know we snooped.”

            “What happens then?” Zayn asks, he’s so curious, he’s willing to take just about any consequence. He  _needs_  to be sure.

            Louis sucks in a deep breath.

            “Well, stealing’s a number five offence, so we’d be off duty for a couple years. But then, you know, I had to get demonic help, so. Let’s just say we’d be going south for a little eternal vacation.”

            “Louis,” he asks finally, “What do demons look like?”

            Louis huffs out a breath.

            “Like us,” he says, “They look exactly like us. Except they’re shadows where we’re light.”

            Zayn swallows hard.

            “Do they- you know, I mean. Urm, follow? Like  _people_?”

            There’s a long pause. Louis seems almost about to ask why, but decides against it.

            “Sometimes yeah,” he says, “They like to keep tabs on their investments.”

—

            Harry smells like lemons and he smiles and Liam thinks of winter. Warmth, though. Liam’s not sure how that makes any sense at all.

            Liam smells like burnt paper and honeysuckle and sweat and Harry falls asleep and dreams that he’s tucked away somewhere safe where no one can reach him. Not even Harry himself if that’s what it takes.

When Zayn and Louis come back from their perch, nearly all of the seats in Sorting are taken. They squeeze into a small spot in the first row. Zayn’s tired so Louis offers to make him a new cup of coffee. He comes back and hands it to him, sidles up beside him like always.

            “Benjamin Ruben?”

            Michael reads the name off quickly, and a scrawny guy in a burlap sack ambles up to the desk.

            Without a word, he reaches out for a jar on the top shelf, smaller than the others but glowing almost the brightest, a powdery pink that makes Zayn think of his little sister’s bedroom. How when he’d told her he was going to Las Vegas for his friend’s bachelor party what felt like decades ago, she’d asked him in a hushed voice if there were princesses there.

            The man- Benjamin- takes his jar and hands it to Michael who unscrews it gently, letting the light drift lazily from the rim.

            There are a few half-hearted waves from the room. Louis lifts his head from Zayn’s shoulder just long enough to blow the man a kiss. He catches it.

            Zayn doesn’t know him, but he feels like they’re in this together. It’s the marks between his shoulder blades. Brothers in scars. Angel blood or some shit like that.

            He raises his coffee mug for a toast just as Benjamin’s light is fluttering around his ankles, inching up, it stops near his chest. He winks, a beaming smile, when his light seems to stretch out wider and wider. It wraps around him, the palest pink, lavender almost in some places. It envelopes him in soft sighs.

            Michael steps back, “Good luck, Benny. With Ruby,” he says, and just like that Benjamin’s gone. The room dims a little, back to normal, and where he was just standing, there’s nothing but a moldy burlap sack and worn-in sandals.

            Later when Michael asks Zayn if he wants to see his wards again, he says yes right away. Ends up spending all of five seconds there, just long enough to see Liam sobbing in the shower, his mother knocking softly and asking if he’s okay.

            He comes back to Purgatory with a lump in his throat and when Louis asks him what’s wrong, he says everything’s bullshit and leaves it at that.

—

            When their class graduates, it’s the worst day of Liam’s life, but he cheers louder than anyone when Harry’s name is called.

            “A full scholarship to Dean’s,” the headmaster shouts into the microphone over the roar of the crowd, “We’re expecting great things from Mr. Styles.”

            The list skips from Pawn to Richards and Liam’s mother holds his hand in the stands. His dad had all but self-combusted when Liam had asked to see Harry off.

            “Why?” he’d asked, “You think they’re going to give you a diploma just for showing up?” but he’d let them go. Liam had driven, his mother coughing quietly in the passenger seat, mouth covered with a handkerchief.

            It had come back a pale pink but Liam hadn’t mentioned it.

            Now, though, lying across his bed in the dark, he’s thinking about everything he should have said. To Harry and to his mother and to his dad, though the latter seems decidedly less wholesome.

            He’d driven his mother back to the hospital straight after the ceremony. Only staying long enough to hug Harry so tight he hoped it would leave bruises. Harry had cried. He was leaving in a few days, no time to see Liam again before. “Write me, please,” and Liam had nodded, then walked away. Afraid if he stayed any longer he’d never leave. 

—

            “I miss sex.”

            “Really?” Louis’ resting his head on his shoulder again. His hand on Zayn’s thigh is what made him think of it.

            Time’s so strange here. He could be twenty-two still. Or forty. Or eighty. And he wouldn’t even know. It’s a day or weeks or years on Earth, but here he sits and waits for some sign of what ward to choose. His sister with all of the options, or the boy he doesn’t even know who seems completely alone.

            He sighs, “Okay, no. But I think I would. If I wasn’t always so mellow and anti-emotion here. I think I’d like to have sex again before I’m gone for eternity.”

            “We could try,” Louis says to be polite, then looks around a bit to make sure no one’s paying attention before palming at Zayn’s crotch until he trails his fingers up his shaft lightly through his jeans, “I used to be good at this.”

            “I’m straight,” Zayn says when Louis licks his lips.

            Louis looks up at him.

            “Me too.” He never stops.

            After a few minutes, though, it’s clear nothing’s going to happen. Louis had even tried unzipping him a little, thinking maybe skin on skin would do the trick.

            Eventually, they decide on kissing instead. It’s nice. Louis settles into Zayn’s lap and puts his arms around his neck, fists into his hair when Zayn tugs on his bottom lip.

            There’s no pressure, since no one’s trying to drag the other closer. It’s decidedly the tamest hook up Zayn’s ever had, but the slowest too. The… sweetest, though he’d never admit it. And when Louis grinds down a little, they both wait for the tell tale gasps that never happen. He tastes like lemon meringue pie and he moans, maybe out of habit, when Zayn’s hands slip beneath his bum, force him closer.

—

            Harry tells him over and over that they don’t have to do this.

            When they’re sitting on the edge of the bed in Harry’s old room, school bags barely unpacked, and Liam kisses his neck, slowly, unsure.

When he runs his hands up Harry’s chest and stops near his heart, near the searing gold glow where his light had sunken in between his ribs. Hidden away the moment Liam had kissed him. Ducking beneath his skin just as their lips touched.

            Even when they’re both in nothing but their boxers and Liam is beneath him, panting out shallow breaths, Harry’s taste tattooed to his lips.

            “I don’t want to hurt you,” Harry says, but his fingers burn like fire, five thin trails down Liam’s abs to the band of his underwear, gripping him just at the base. The sort of pain he’d beg for, hands and knees.

            “I’ve wanted this for so long,” Harry whispers, and Liam moans, “Just tell me, please, okay? If it’s too much.”

            He runs his lips over Liam’s collarbone, sucks a bruise into his neck just beside the dark one from the night before. Liam tries not to think about how sure Harry is, how he knows just what to do. Tries not to imagine some older boy at school taking his time, Harry’s hands on someone else’s skin. It’s always been him. Them.

            “Tell me if you want to stop,” Harry says again, voice lilting in a background to Liam’s whimpers. Where his fingers tease him open gently, so steady.

            Then deeper and the pain makes its way back, but with Harry’s soft curls tickling the insides of his thighs, his tongue tracing him, the shadow of a prayer tucked behind his eyes.

—

            “How do you know? How do you  _choose_?”

            Zayn’s lying back on the cool stone of the cave floor, head in his hands. Eleanor’s at his feet. Louis’ head is on his stomach.

            It’s still early, too early for the city lights to show up. They’re waiting.

            It’s Eleanor’s day. There’s a ruby-red light waiting on a shelf for her. Louis promised her he’d take her to see Heaven before she had to leave.

            “I’m going for my little sister’s best friend,” El says, then adds hastily, like she feels like she needs to explain, “my sister has a light already. And our mum, too, you know. She’s had hers since she was a baby…”

            Louis drags his hand through his hair in front, messes up his bang then smoothes it back down.

            “I’ve got five sisters, and enough aunts and uncles to start our own country. Only a few of them have children,” he says, leaving out some things but the other two understand.

            “My little sister hasn’t got a light yet,” Zayn says, “but there are tons of kids who don’t have lights,” and Louis sits up a little, reaches for his hand, “Tons of them.”

            “People come for them,” Eleanor says quietly.

           “They get angels, Zayn,” Louis assures him, grip tightening. They sit back against the wall. Eleanor stretches out, kicks her shoes off.

            “My grandma has cancer. She’s…  _close_ ,” Zayn says, “and everyone else in my family’s okay. I mean, they’ve all got lights, and all my aunts and uncles, you know? Maybe she’ll…”

            He’s glad he doesn’t have to say it. He’s almost scared that if he does God will show up on the cave’s ledge, an angry pout and a firebolt in hand, ready to banish Zayn to Hell for even thinking it. Some random kid with bruises or his sister. He feels dirty, really dirty, but when he closes his eyes he can see that thin figure behind the boy, his hair falling in his eyes, tears just starting to spill over.

            “Someone will come for him” Louis whispers, lips pressed to his ear, just as the lights seem to blink to life. Eleanor gasps and Louis smiles, watching her reaction, and Zayn wishes he could be so sure. Wishes he could swallow all of his doubts and jot Waliyah down on the form without his hands trembling.

—

            “What does he look like?  _Really_?”

            Harry’s face scrunches up, struggling to find the right words. He turns a little until he’s on his back on the bed, arms out at his side. Liam takes his hand.

            It’s eerie how normal this feels. Harry’s hand in his, lying out on his bed, up talking in the middle of the night. But so many things are different now.

            Harry’s room is a skeleton. Walls bare. And there are suitcases piled up high by the door, a university banner hanging over the top most one.

            “You mean when he’s with me. When he’s not hiding?”

            Liam nods, then shakes his head. He’s not really even sure what he’s trying to ask. He just wonders sometimes if there are pieces missing. Maybe if he knew what to look for…

            “I don’t know. I mean,  _is_  he hiding? Right now?”

            As if in an attempt to answer his question, Harry’s light plops itself down on Harry’s chest. It wiggles around until it’s nestled into the thick fabric of his shirt.

            “He’s- He’s… I don’t really know how to say,” he pauses, one hand in Liam’s, one stroking the light lazily, a soft auburn glow, “He’s still… light, Liam. He’s just  _light_. Even when he’s as real as you and me.”

            “Does he smile?” he asks, then blushes, silently berating himself. Of all the questions he could ask…

Harry only turns to him, a slow smile spreading across his own face. His eyes are clouded and bright, misty like he’s on the verge of tears.

            “I wish you could see him,” is all he says, holding Liam’s hand up to his lips, kissing him gently on his bruised knuckles, “I wish I could have you both. I ask him sometimes. When it’s late and I can’t sleep. I-”

            “Harry…” a warning. Softer, though. A plea.

            “I do,” he insists. Dragging his eyes up to Liam’s collar. To the dark purple bruise forming in the pale skin.

            Then after a moment, Liam can’t take it. It’s like the entire world is closing in on him, the walls lapping at the edges of his vision, sharp teeth jagged and unforgiving.

            “What does he say?” He asks, avoiding the way the bluish light above Harry’s shoulder seems to burn brighter at the question. Seems to almost pulse deeper and deeper until it’s nearly navy blue.

            “That there are some people who don’t need saving.”

—

            Louis lies back with his head in Zayn’s lap and sighs.

            It’s dark in the Sorting room, but everything seems to glow like they’re surrounded by a million candles. It’s only Louis’ light, burning so bright. Pulsing excitedly behind the jar’s glass walls. There’s a soft  _ting_  whenever Louis shuffles on the floor, the sound of his light tapping against the glass when it tries to fly to him.

            “I don’t know what I want,” Louis says, then closes his eyes, frowns like he’s struggling to find the words, “Zayn, will you… Will you look for me? When we’re both gone?”

            He wishes he could eat. That’s his first thought honestly, he wishes he had something in front of him he could take his time chewing to think about what he’s going to say so he doesn’t fuck this up.

            “How will I know it’s you?” Zayn asks, sips, breathes so deep his vision goes spotty.

            Louis shrugs. But his eyes are shining, gold in his soul’s shimmering light, eerily serious and determined like Zayn’s never seen before.

            “Maybe I’ll be bright enough,” he says softly. They both turn to his light then. Just for a moment.

            “Will I remember you?” He’s not sure how the whole back-to-earth process works. He’d gotten the gist of Sorting and such, but the basic principles of soul-morphing still seemed like rocket science.

            Louis shrugs again, eyes never leaving the spot on the shelf where his light was dancing around, happily lost in some strange bliss. And next to it, where Zayn’s light was burning a fierce ebony, almost throbbing, but so still, hovering above the base of the jar. They’d moved them so they were side-by-side. They both silently hoped something spectacular would happen. Zayn had thought maybe they’d turn to each other hesitantly, tap the glass, swap colors through the layers like he’d seen other lights do. It would have been nice, he thought, to see what his light looked like when it wasn’t so dark. And to see Louis’ coated in a film of grey shadows. Louis had hoped they’d go straight through the glass, wrap around each other, become one soul maybe…

—

            When Harry trails his fingers up Liam’s side, everything turns to dust.

—

Louis kisses him goodbye and it feels so final. Even though it’s just as long as his ward’s living. 

            Louis stands by Michael’s desk and Zayn’s the only other one to wave him off in the empty Sorting room.

            Michael tips the brim of his hat, “Later, Lou. Good luck with Harry.”

            Zayn’s thankful Purgatory smothers emotions. He’s sure otherwise he’d be crying. He can’t take it really. Runs up and kisses Louis again just before his light wraps all the way around him.   

            When he opens his eyes, there’s nothing in front of him but empty space. On the ground at his feet is a pair of worn-in Toms, blue jeans, and a striped t-shirt with a coffee stain right in the middle, staining the bright red a dark burgundy.

            Zayn spends the rest of the night on their perch, watching the bright lights of Heaven in the distance. For a long time he wonders why it feels so much colder than it had before. When he realizes it’s because Louis’ usually lying across him, head on his shoulder, he heads back to Sorting and asks Michael if there’s a way to recognize other angels.

            “Will I know Louis if I see him?” he says, “While we’re both down there?”

            Michael’s hands slow on the stacks of paper, but don’t stop.

            He nods.

            “He’ll be familiar, but you won’t know why.”

            “Will I see  _him_ , or will it just be his soul?”

            Michael shakes his head.

            “Angels don’t see orbs,” he says, “Angels are light to most of the living. Demons are shadows to them, too. They’re as real to us as you and me, Zayn. You’ll see  _him_. You’ll see Louis, not just his soul.”

—

It’s Harry’s summer break whenLiam’s mother dies and Liam comes back from the hospital with his dad because Harry’d borrowed his car.

            They were going to go to the beach but then his dad had called him, and two hours later they were standing over her hotel bed, watching as her light bobbed around her chest, waiting. They were all waiting.

            A few seconds later, a soft yellow glow shown just between her breasts. It inched up and up until it was an orb so small you could make a fist and still not squeeze it, the size of a lemon drop but so bright it bathed the entire room in a soft warmth like sunshine.

            Liam’s dad took a step back. Liam stayed still.

            His mother’s soul and her light approached each other gently, then soared straight up and out of the room, so fast if he had blinked he would have missed them.

            It’s simple.

            He feels like he should be scared maybe, but he isn’t. It’s simple. Just like that.

            With Harry so close and his mother skirting eternity and…

            He waits until his dad’s at the dining room table, the paper spread out in front of him, a glass of brandy to the side, before he goes into his parents’ room and opens his dad’s nightstand drawer.

            In a thick wooden box is his uncle’s old rifle. It’s the same one he’d forgotten to put the safety on so long ago, accidentally shot himself in his own kitchen just before Liam was born.

            It’s old, but there are still bullets in it. He knows because his mother had nearly lost her mind when he’d found it when he was five and tried to play with it.

            He starts to go to his room, then changes his mind and locks himself in the bathroom instead.

            There’s a soft voice in his mind telling him to sit, to double check and make sure it’s loaded, to do it quick and easy.

            But he hesitates. Thinking of Harry. Only him.

            And how much it will crush him when he finds out. But there’s Heaven for them after this. Somewhere he doesn’t have to worry about being afraid or hiding.

            He’d wanted to write a note, but this is better, he thinks. Cleaner.

            But then he hears his father’s footsteps on the landing and he pauses. Then quicker, past the door, and quicker still once he knows he’s in his room and has probably seen the empty box on the nightstand.

            He hears his name  _roared_  and then the harsh stomp of footsteps. He holds the gun to the side of his face, hates the way he’s trembling. Moves it so it’s aimed at his forehead with both hands on the handle.

            His dad’s heavy fists are slamming against the wood of the bathroom door, shaking the frame.

            He hates himself, for shaking, for crying, for not being able to just  _do_  it. But he feels the strongest pull to hold back. Then a pull a little stronger to dive in. He shakes his head to try and clear the chaos, but nothing helps. He remembers Harry telling him once, what seems like forever ago- “I wish I could have you both.”

**—**

            Zayn remembers the Sorting room. A stray thought about trading fifteen minutes for lost forms.

            “How many minutes do you want?” he asks her, trying to keep his voice steady, but his eyes rush back and forth to Liam’s trembling hands in the harsh fluorescent light. To the way he flinches like he’s been hit every time his dad bangs on the door again, curses so cruel. To the demon’s long, flowing dress, mouth set in a bored line. Arms crossed over her narrow chest.

            Even with the distractions, Zayn can hear the words so faint on Liam’s lips.

            He’s praying for strength. The strength to pull the trigger.

            “How many!” Zayn shouts, his voice breaking. No time, not enough time.

            The demon stares at him like he’s a petulant child.

            “How badly do you want him?” she asks, stepping closer to Liam. Zayn sucks in a breath when she puts a hand in his hair, runs her fingers through the curls at the nape of his neck.

             _Pleasepleasepleaseplease_ The steady flow, unbreaking, like he’s waiting for an answer. Like he half-expects God to come down from Heaven and show him what to do.

            A soft voice Zayn doesn’t recognize rattles around in his skull.

_A boy with too many toys._

“I’ll give you a year,” he blurts out, begging. Finally begging.

Liam’s dad’s taken to kicking now. The profanity still streaming in, but the door is shrieking in protest. Liam’s cheeks are streaked with tear tracks, long thin trails, his eyes squeezed shut, the barrel of the gun to his forehead, but not steady. It rocks back and forth in his lax grip, between his eyes to lower and lower then back again. His mouth, the knuckles of his hands so white, then between his eyes like before. The side of his head  _Pleasepleasepleaseplease_. The demon leans into him, kisses his neck.

“I have a quota to fill, you know? I’ve been with him since he was a baby,” she says, “I want at least as much.”

Zayn shakes his head.

“That’s nineteen years. It’s- It’s too much.” He’s not sure what’ll happen to him without his soul, but he certainly doesn’t want to spend nineteen years finding out. Not when nineteen years could be a few minutes. Or nineteen years could be until the end of time.

The demon laughs. It makes his skin crawl. Then more, deeper, when she puts a long, thin hand over Liam’s on the handle of the gun.

She whispers to him like Zayn’s not even there.

“Come on, baby. This is it. You’re all alone. Don’t you want to see your mother again? And Harry in just a few years? You could meet your uncle.”

Liam moans and Zayn thinks for a moment that he’s really heard her. But his grip hasn’t tightened.

“Five,” he says, “I’ll give you five years,” but she shakes her head again, her curls rub thick against each other, slick with grease and dirt.

“You’d better hurry,  _guardian_ ,” she says, smiling, a mouth full of teeth filed to points, “he’s so close.”

 “T-t-ten,” he blurts out before he can stop himself, a loud snap wrecking through the bathroom when the door starts to crack at the base, his dad’s insistent kicking finally giving in.

Liam notices, seems to look straight through Zayn to the door.

His eyes are completely blood shot, his bottom lip trembling.

The demon’s smile grows that much wider.    

“Not much time,” she says and Zayn knows.

He knows he’s going to say it before he does. It’s when Liam sighs, so low and his chest stills. It’s how steady his hand seems on the gun now. All of a sudden the semblance of calm. A deep breath, a voice by his ear. A promise.  _Angels can’t go to Hell._

But where do they go? If his soul’s in the hands of evil, is he stuck here on Earth? Does he go back to purgatory? How can he be Sorted again if he doesn’t have a soul.

But not Heaven, though. Not with his soul in Hell.

It doesn’t matter, though, he decides with his throat tightening. Not when he has the chance to stop all of this chaos with a few words. Not when Liam’s had nineteen years of Hell already. He can’t- he  _won’t_  let him suffer for eternity, too. The guilt is nearly suffocation. He could have stopped this- he could have gone earlier. But he’d waited for Waliyah when she’d had someone already. Three people fighting for her all along.

All Liam had was a name scribbled down on a piece of paper, REJECTED in bright red. All Liam had was  _him_ , Zayn is his last chance.

“Take me,” he says, and there’s a tug at his chest.

“I said take me,” his voice shakes, “Take me instead.”

Liam’s dad’s voice is a booming tyrant. It swamps them all in a stifling anger. He hears “worthless” over and over and he knows he’s doing the right thing. He just knows.

“I’m giving you my soul,” he says, “Let him go.”

Immediately the tug at his chest grows to a pull then a yank and he feels… empty. It’s deeper than purgatory’s smothering. It’s like he’s a hollow shell, watching as his soul slips slowly from his body. He can hear it humming low, see its light burning brighter and brighter until she holds out her hand and wraps her long fingers around it easily. With one last kiss to the side of Liam’s neck, she’s gone, slipping down straight through the floor. It’s the last thing he sees before everything goes black.

When he opens his eyes, it’s to Liam’s dad’s side.

He’s kneeling on the tiled floor, his trousers stained a deep maroon right up his thighs, with his head in his hands and Zayn’s not sure why. He wants to close his eyes, wants to lie here until the world ends. He’s done now. He’s empty and he’s alone, but he’s done. He saved him.

All he can see are the bottoms of Liam’s feet He’s lying on the floor, his dad over him.  But then there’s a light so dark it burns grey, but bright as the sun, rising up in front of his dad’s face. Rising up straight from where Liam’s chest should be.

Before Zayn can think, before he can process it, before he can make the room stop spinning, there’s a short gasping, wheezing breath and Liam’s dad reaches out with long fingers, cups the light in his palm. Then it spills lazily from his grip, drips like ash down to Liam’s body then lower and lower until the bathroom is as dark as night and Zayn is empty, empty as he’s ever been, and Liam’s soul is headed straight for Hell.  


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Liam's in Hell. Zayn's alone and soul-less. He meets some new people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying my hardest to keep it simple, but the next bits are probably still going to be a little confusing. If you don't know anything about the Christian resurrection story, basically, God's greatest gift to mankind was supposedly "free will". God sacrifices his son, Jesus, to a life of suffering so we can go to Heaven when we die. Lucifer's the angel of music, i.e. choir conductor, who gets cast down to Hell for being too ambitious. It's the same in this verse, only for my own sick pleasure, I like to think a lifetime of watching people ignore him would make God a little testy so he does the logical thing- Decides to make a new Jesus.

It’s the quietest Sorting’s ever been, and Michael’s anxious but he’ll be damned if he’s going to let it show.

            Nearly seven centuries with his post and he’d always had  _something_  to do. If not souls to send off, then requests from Heaven. One of the big three dropping notes at his door asking to see him, or hounding him off to some god-forsaken corner of Purgatory to snag a witch root or a chunk of burned wood or someone who’d gotten lost on their way in death.

            This silence is new, but certainly not welcome. There hasn’t been a single new soul for so long he’s started piling the empty jars under his desk to make room on the shelves.

It’s just so strange, he’s not sure what to make of it all. Whether it meant more people were passing Purgatory and going straight to Heaven, or slipping right on down to Hell. He’s sitting alone in the quiet room now and the only sound is the steady drip of the coffee maker on the other side.

            He hums low under his breath, just to fill the space while he sorts his papers. Starts with Travis Tritt, then the broken chorus of a random Alan Jackson song, humming to the little light in the jar on his desk next to him

            It’s a soft blue, almost clear around the edges. Untouched so far, Michael had sort of resigned himself to keeping it close since it had been sent to him a few weeks ago. Unlike the lights he usually received, the little blue one had been hand delivered by a messenger angel. And where the other lights in Purgatory were usually sat up on shelves, he’d kept this one on the edge of his desk, watching it sink low, buzz in cheerful content purrs whenever Michael would laugh or hum or absentmindedly stroke the thick glass of its mason jar. When he went off, leaving others in charge of Sorting, he always took the light with him. Tucking it into his satchel, but keeping the top open a little so it wasn’t too dark inside.

            His voice trails off, forgetting the tune of the bridge, then he taps the glass smartly when the light swirls and burns, eases into a yellow like lemonade.

            “You laughing at me?” he asks, trying to keep a stern face.

            The light only burns brighter, not even pretending to hide it.

            “Whatever,” he sighs, adjusting the low brim of his Stetson, “Let’s see who’s laughing when you get your call and I ignore it.”

            The light shudders at that, sinking low to the bottom of its jar, humming out apologies with soft rays of rose-petal pink.

            Michael smiles smugly, “Thought so.”

            He’s got the second stack of papers almost done, humming Brooks and Dunne, when he hears a faint knock at the door. Before he can even answer, it opens slowly and Michael’s spine stiffens.

            “Gabriel,” he nods, by way of greeting, and the arch angel walks in, bowing at the waist. His wings are thick, tufts of foot-long feathers with puffy soft down beneath and a thin trail at the base of his neck. They stay poised now, though, rigid as stone, the color of grass, a stroke of paint across his pitch-black back. His skin is ebony like God’s, stretched paper thin across his lithe frame, green wings folded tight. His eyes are kind like always, but calculating. 

            “He wishes to speak with you,” he says, turning away before Michael can ask who. Not that he needs to. Gabriel’s taken orders from Jesus and Jesus alone since God had assigned him to so long ago.

            A moment later, Gabriel walks back in, a shorter man sauntering in behind him. He’s bare-chested with cream-colored pants hanging low on his narrow hips. His skin almost the same shade, a farmer’s tan, shaggy brown hair spilling in kinky spirals over his collarbones.

            Without an introduction, or even meeting Michael’s eyes, Jesus walks up and plucks the little jar from his desk. He turns it around in his slim hands, holding it close to his face before pulling back to tap at the lid.

            “You’ve named him,” he says, hardly a question.

            Michael nods and the little blue light sinks to the bottom of the jar, as far away from the tapping as he can. When no one says a word for nearly a full minute, Michael clears his throat.

            “Sorting’s been awfully quiet lately,” he says, palm itching to reach out and take the jar from Jesus’ hand. 

            “There have been fewer souls,” Jesus admits.

            “I haven’t seen a new soul in weeks.”

            “ _Significantly_ fewer then, I know. Someone’s coming for him,” he adds hen, “I need a place to keep him safe.”

            It takes Michael a moment to realize that Jesus is talking about the light now. About Blue.

            Then he’s a hair’s breadth away from flat out laughing.

            “And he’s safer with me than you?” he asks, staring around at the empty room, at the cracks in the walls, the old door practically hanging off of the hinges. If anyone wanted to get the jump on him, they wouldn’t even need an army, just half a brain.

            Jesus is as somber as ever, face twisted up a little like it always seems to be, like he’s constantly in excruciating pain.

            “I can’t protect him myself,” he says.

            Michael’s got a damn good glare going by this point, more annoyed than anything because he knows he’s not getting the full story. That’s how it always is with Heavenly beings. You get just enough information to get sucked into the drama. He’s watching the little blue light flopping happily toward him where Jesus had set him down, ignoring the exchange happening right above his head.  _I’m not as young as I used to be,_ Michael’s thinking,  _I can’t protect you from anything_.

            “You won’t have to stop whoever’s coming. When they’re here, the light is theirs,” Jesus says, as if it will comfort him, “I only want to keep him away as long as I can.”

            Before Michael can even say what’s on his mind, Jesus is shaking his head.

            “I won’t intervene,” he tells him, “There’s still free will. That was an eternal promise.”

            “That some folks like to piss on,” he snaps back before he can help it, remembering the faces of countless souls passing right by this very desk. People waking up dead, wondering why their lives were cut short by a god they’d never even met, to do some bidding that didn’t concern them in the slightest. Or to be out of the way while the higher ups moved their knights and bishops around.

            Jesus smiles at him, sadly somehow, “I’m not my father.”

            Michael wants to apologize, but he’s still too irritated.

            “Who’s coming?” he says instead.

            “A confused child.”

            He stares down at the light. His voice dips almost subconsciously, “What does he want with him?”

            “What do we all want?” Jesus asks before walking towards the door. Gabriel looping gracefully behind, “Fairness. And what we’re owed.”

            Michael looks back at him skeptically, “And this fella’s owed a light? So he’s just going to take it?”

            Jesus is at the door by now, he pauses for only a moment, slim hand on the frame. In the low golden hall light, his face is framed almost like a halo.

            “This agreement is between the two of us,” he says, kind but clearly a warning.  _Not my father. Not the Holy Spirit._ “I’ll be in touch.”

            Michael nods and then they’re gone, Gabriel’s wings a sweep of pale green then nothing. And he’s left staring at the light, wondering what could warrant so much care. Whose soul it must be to have Jesus himself staking some warped, murky sort of claim.

            The next time Jesus contacts him, Michael’s sitting out waiting for the sun to set.

            It’s a little cool so he’s wrapped in an old shawl he’d found bundled up in the corner a few years ago. It’s more holes and thread than anything else, but he’s draped it over his shoulders, the blue light situated in its jar by his ankle, waiting with him for the sun to settle in for the night.

            Jesus seems to appear from nowhere. From the trees maybe, from the sky. Michael’s watching the horizon but he sees him walk up. His usual slow strut before he sinks down beside them in the grass.

            It’s nothing like the last time he’d seen him. Now Jesus is so close, Michael could reach out and touch him if he wanted to. And he’s alone, no angel ahead or trailing. And he doesn’t say a word, only nudges Blue’s jar with his knuckles, knees drawn up to his chest.

            Michael lets the silence settle between them for so long that they’re sitting in darkness, a new moon snug in the sky. Which is fitting, he thinks, watching Jesus fiddle with the mason jar’s sealed lid. Watching the light start to burn a little darker, getting more comfortable with him. It all makes sense. A new moon. The start of something. A beginning. Good or bad, he’s not sure yet.

            Either way when it’s an hour later and Jesus finally speaks, it still feels like it’s right on time, his voice softer than he’s ever heard it. Less controlled, though.

            “I told you to watch him,” he says, looking off to where Heaven’s lights are only needle points in the distance. Las Vegas from the moon.

            “I have been,” Michael tells him, sitting up a bit straighter, “Little crumb snatcher hasn’t left my sight, I swear.”

            At that, Blue puffs up, leaning towards Michael, blushing a proud powder pink in his center.

            “Things are changing,” Jesus says, “Plans are being made.”

            “Plans?”

            He nudges the jar again, “Decisions that are beyond our control.”

              _Our_ , Michael thinks,  _Not my but our_.

            It’s.. unsettling, he has to admit. Before he can say, though, Jesus is rising, dusting his trousers off a little.

            He looks down at Michael for a second, then off to Heaven again so far away.

            “In a few days, I’ll come to get you,” he says.

            When Michael asks what for, Jesus tells him to be patient.

            And to have faith.

            “Always,” he promises, but his hands are trembling.

—

Zayn blacks out on Liam’s bathroom floor, and wakes up in the back seat of a car.

            He can’t catch his breath.

            Everything’s grey. Covered in dust. Or ashes. Or no, his eyes are closed. He’s blinking, though. Waking up to a dingy backseat window. There are slim grey fingers against the glass. Faces and shadows outside, a shoulder, a streak of hair. It’s all grey.

And there’s pressure on his chest, pressure like a million stars burning through his skin. Words flooding his mind so fast he can’t make sense of any of them-  _be familiar, but you_ \- his tongue heavy like lead-  _won’t know why_. Forgetting faces, seconds, moments, everything going blank.

            He’s panting-  _as real as_ \- remembering the look on Liam’s face, the sound of his dad’s knuckles on the thin wood door-  _him. You’ll see Louis, not just his_ -

            He’s shaking his head, trying to make them stay, but the memories are slipping away from him already. Everything about Heaven. Everything about death. Everything about a second chance. He squeezes his eyes shut tight, feeling the soft burn of tears begging to spill over.

            He can’t, though. Can’t forget. He  _can’t_. It’s too cruel, even with all that’s happened.

            He bites down on his lip, fisting at the buttons on his shirt, a searing ring of pain in the middle of his chest so clear it’s like he’s being torn apart, burned straight through with acid. But he’s trying to focus through it, trying to bring the memories all back before they fade away. Louis and his soft hands and Michael’s low accent, thick and warm, and Eleanor’s wide eyed amazement at seeing the lights of Heaven for the first time. Liam’s rare smile, his eyes, his wild curls when he just wakes up. His dad’s composed vehemence. The tattooing of his fists’ kisses along Liam’s jaw and forearms. A woman stick-thin and dark, a shadow, teeth like needle points. She’s.. She’s bad. No, she’s evil.

            Right?

            But Zayn’s forgetting so fast. Too fast for him to swallow them back down. Choking. Struggling.

            It’s gold bangs, then a laugh high and rough like glitter, like sandpaper. And something about wings- He’s got two buttons down, sobbing, trembling. The people outside, their misty grey faces staring in at him, slipping away. Coffee cups, wide hips- “ _Wait, Please, just- I need more-”-_  soft lips, ink leaking through parchment paper, B-20s, Someone waiting.. Someone waiting to make a choice-

            And it’s over just like that.

            He gasps, arching into the sudden tight bow string pressure on his spine, icy cool fingertips then soft brushes of warmth to kiss the pain away.

            “Hey,” comes a soft voice from too close, just above his face, “Awesome, you’re awake.”

            When Zayn opens his eyes, he’s blinking past tears. It takes a moment to make it out, but he’s eventually met with the smiling face of a kid who couldn’t be older than sixteen or seventeen. Leaning over him, he takes a good look at Zayn’s chest then his hands, his neck.

            His dark eyes roaming over him like he’s gauging the damage. Short hair cropped close to his forehead, skin so pale it’s almost translucent

            “Not too bad,” he says after a bit, smiling that much wider, “That’s awesome. Dude, I was  _this_ close to calling it. Good thing your kind’s got lungs like fucking steel.”

            He’s introducing himself as Logan before Zayn notices the bone-tipped dagger he’s cradling in his grip. 

            “My kind?” he asks, trying to sit up, only to fall back down, gasping at the sharp pain between his ribs.

            The kid laughs, waving the knife around a bit too carefree for Zayn’s comfort.

            “Yeah,” Logan says, same cheery smile, “Your kind. Demons.”

—

It’s so dark the sun hasn’t even begun to rise, and Harry has to tell Louis over and over that he wants to do this alone. Even then, he turns a dark copper and drops down to Harry’s ankles, tugs at him with annoyed little sharp pricks, then soothes them away.  _Please_ , he says, feathery light kisses,  _Please, take me with you._

            Harry has to promise that he’ll only be gone a half hour before Louis reluctantly lets him go. Not without burning a cold ivory, though. He settles in on Harry’s pillow, puffed up and offended, turning about and refusing to say goodbye.

            Harry manages the spindly candles, his bible, and a few other things in his arms, ducking out of the back door into the night.

            At a fast pace, he could walk the path in only a few minutes. But something makes him want to take his time, so he walks slow. Like the longer it takes him to say his farewell, then the longer Liam lingers.

            He’s gone. Harry knows that, but it’s just- it’s easier to pretend that  _this_  has meaning. It’s easier to act as if he has some power to pause time, to second-guess Heaven. So he walks slow, and even when he makes it to the lake, he sets all of his things down, and just lies there for a while with the soft earth beneath him letting him sink in. And he closes his eyes, trying to remember the last time he’d felt darkness like this. But his memory seems to just drop off with Louis. It’s like the moment Louis came to him, everything else slipped away.

            He’s not sure if it’s a comforting admission, or a frustrating one, so he just begins. Sets the little white candles out in a circle, pressing them deep into the mud until only the wicks and about an inch of the wax is visible. Nineteen candles in a neat ring. He leaves a gap by those nearest him, then grabs his bible and turns to one of the dog-eared pages- “ _Isaiah 41:10,_ ” he reads, “Fear not, for I am with you. Be not dismayed; I will strengthen you.”

            He pauses to turn to the back, leaning in more toward the light, “ _Deuteronomy 31:6_. Be strong and have courage. Do not fear, for it is the Lord who goes with you. He will not leave you or forsake you.”

            “Dear God. This is your will, so I won’t question it,” his voice carries, even when he’s speaking so low.

“I just wanted to ask one thing, though. Before it’s too late, I guess. Because I’m not questioning you, I’m just.. Liam’s been alone. I mean, he was alone his entire life. He had me, but he was just..”

            He clears his throat, hating how unsteady his voice is, the tears turning the candle flames to hazy gold blobs like Louis when Harry kisses him goodnight. For a moment, he wishes he hadn’t decided to do this on his own. It was too hard without Louis’ familiar coolness snug up in his hair, petting him, lapping at his scalp with little calming touches. 

            But Harry wanted to do this alone.  _Had_  to. Because as kind as Louis had been to Liam all along, his presence would still be nothing but cruel.

            “I just want a sign,” he says, wiping at his eyes, “Or a message, I guess. Or whatever you can- Just tell me that he’s okay and that he’s not alone anymore. And I don’t know if it can work both ways, but maybe you could tell him that I’m sorry, too? For leaving. And for coming back, I don’t know. That’s- That’s it, I think.”

            When he’s done, he tugs at the bible page until it starts to tear free, rolls it up tight and pushes it down in the empty space he’d left there in the mud. He waits until the wet ground starts to seep into the paper, until the white’s a dull grey, before he starts to blow out the candles.

            A slow trail one by one, and after each he feels that much worse. It’s the same thing he’d been taught his entire life- the circle, the prayer. He can almost hear his pastor, Reverend Des’ voice deep in his chest.

            “A candle for every year without a light,” he’d be saying, “A lantern in your path. We honor the passed this way- with a step for each unguided moment after death.”

            Nineteen candles, nineteen years. Harry stays until it’s too cold, until he’s shivering, arms wrapped around himself. Until the sun’s rising and Liam’s funeral is only a few hours away and Harry feels like he’ll die if he goes. Like his heart will just stop beating, having to go through the ceremony, to offer his condolences to Liam’s dad when he was the one who killed him.

            He can almost hear his mother’s voice in his head telling him that anger is a sin as bad as any other.

            People could say whatever they wanted, Harry knew. Liam’s dad broke him down. He  _broke_  him. His entire life. If anyone was responsible for Liam’s death, it was Liam’s father.


	3. Chapter 3

The first soul through Sorting is a little boy with pale grey eyes. So pale Michael thinks for a moment that he can’t see, that he’s still blind even after death. It’s proved when he waddles through the door and straight into a chair, then another. He’s trembling, in nothing but a large shirt that falls past his knees, and tattered sandals.

            When Michael helps him in and asks for his name, the boy doesn’t even seem to hear him. He starts to cry.

            He cries for his mother, then his father. Then other people, names Michael can’t make out. He cries until he’s begging for something to stop it all.

            What  _it_  is, Michael’s not sure, but in his hands, in the grip of his fingers, the boy starts to fade.

           His chest first. It rises and falls in quick little bursts through his sobs, then starts to crumble in on itself like sand. Slipping through Michael’s hands, the boy’s chest then his arms and his legs and he’s still crying through it all. It happens so fast. Until he’s a pile of grey dust at Michael’s feet.

            He wants to tell Jesus. It’s his first instinct. Not God, but Jesus.

But what would a letter like that even say?

             _Come quick, there’s a problem in Purgatory. People are dying.._

He groans, shaking his head. It’s like a bad joke.

            Eventually, he manages something that’s not as embarrassing. He sends it off the next morning with his fingers crossed.

            But then there’s a woman standing by his desk in a black shirt and riding crops, her long hair braided back down to her waist.

            She’s grey just like the boy had been, the same hollow eyes, but she doesn’t call for her mother like he had.

            “Blair?” she whispers, head whipping around at the sound of his footsteps.

            “I’m Michael,” he tells her, “You’re in Sorting.”

            But a second later, she’s crumbling away. Slabs of grey skin and bone and muscle trickling to the ground and he’s standing alone again, Blue’s light like a lantern at his feet, so soft it almost makes the woman’s ashes look like sand. Like blueish-silver rocks on the beach under a full moon.

This time the letter he sends Jesus is a little more urgent and Michael’s humming Waylon Jennings when the door to Sorting swings open.

            It’s Gabriel, stoic as ever, green wings puffed up against his back, but he’s not alone.

            Beside him is an angel Michael’s never seen before. She’s tiny, barely to Gabriel’s chest, with tanned skin, a handful of freckles across her narrow nose. Her short dark hair skims her shoulders, thick wings an almost metallic pink.

            When Gabriel greets him, she doesn’t say a word.

            “He wishes to speak with you,” Gabriel says, then they both turn right around to leave.

            By the time Michael’s through sighing at angels’ relatively nonexistent people skills, Jesus is walking in, Gabriel and the tiny pink thing following him.

            “You sent for me,” he says, reaching out immediately to pluck Blue up from Michael’s desk like he had before.

            The little light bobs around, nosing up to the glass to greet him, offering a pale green color Michael’s only ever gotten once or twice. And never just for looking at him.

            But whatever.

            He clears his throat.

            “There’s been some strange people through,” he tries slowly, not sure how to say it all.

            “Explain them to me,” Jesus tells him, pulling a seat up and leaning back a little, watching Michael intently.

            Michael clears his throat, feeling absolutely ridiculous.

            “Well, grey,” he says, “They’re all sort of.. grey. And they’ve got the same eyes.”

            He doesn’t even have to look to know that Blue’s agreeing adamantly. He’s shining brightly from the corner of his vision, light spilling over, flooding the table around him.

            “Eyes..” Jesus leans in a little.

            “Yeah, they look right through me. And when they die, it’s like they’re breaking apart,” he says, “Like they’re turning to- crumbling- all-”

            “Dust,” Jesus says, looking away.

            It’s another moment before he looks up again, but when he does Michael almost flinches, sinking back into his chair.

            He’s so angry, it’s splayed all across his face. The soft lines twisted into a scowl, eyes narrowed. Even his hands are balled into fists

            “Heaven’s been.. sealed off,” he snaps, sparing Blue the sort of look that makes Michael want to  pull him away, “Indefinitely, it would seem.”

            Jesus stands abruptly then, looking suspiciously like he means to just walk out without any explanation at all.

            “Wait,” Michael says after him, practically shouts actually, but he’s frustrated. And inching quickly towards angry at being left in the dark.

            Jesus pauses, but with his back still turned.

            “What do you mean Heaven’s closed? That’s impossible.”

            When Jesus doesn’t immediately deny it, Michael feels a lump rising in his throat.

            “So those people? They didn’t go to Heaven..”

            Jesus doesn’t even say no, but he doesn’t need to. It’s written on his face. In the tight fists at his sides. In the taut stretch of his spine. Jaw clenched around the unspoken words.

            “But that means they’d be in Hell, though,” Michael murmurs, feeling like he’s just been slapped, “If they’re innocent. That’s..” Insane. Cruel.  _Unfair,_  he wants to say, but something makes him bite back on the word. Jesus’ anger maybe. The rigid set to his spine. The tension in his shoulders and neck. Like he’s just as blindsided by this as Michael is.

            “I told you I’d call for you. Remember? I told you plans were being made.”

            Michael nods, scooping the little light’s jar into his hands, petting his glass in what he hopes are comforting pats instead of anxious ones.

            He manages a confused, “ _Uhm, alright?_ ”, then, “Where are you going?” when Jesus is walking off, his angels close behind.

            He keeps on walking. Doesn’t even look back. His voice practically a growl, low and determined, “ _To talk with my father_.”

—

Logan never seems to stop talking. About his night so far. His life. His car- a 76’ Hornet.  _A heavy-bodied metal cinderblock_ , he says proudly, patting the dash by the wheel, painted what was probably once a bright orange, but had faded now to rust in most places. Burnt auburn almost, pockmarked with holes and dents and scratches showing the original black finish.

            Zayn doesn’t even ask, but Logan’s trailing on about how he’d gotten it for his sixteenth birthday.

            “Well, my first sixteenth,” he adds, a bit quieter.

 _Who are you?_  is what Zayn really want to say.  _Who am I?_   _Where the fuck are we even going?_

But he.. can’t.

He’s staring out of the window, watching the streets coast by and he doesn’t recognize any of it. He’s too scared to leave, too scared he’ll never make it back. Back home maybe, if he has one. Or he’s too scared to go back, if back there is why he feels like he’s going to vomit, and he’s trembling, and the figures outside are still wavery ghosts. He doesn’t know what to make of them.

When he asks who they are, Logan just shrugs.

“Like, spirits, I guess. They’re taking a long ass time to cross over, though.”

When he asks where they’re going, Logan points up ahead. Motioning like there’s something to see when all Zayn can make out is fog and the clumps of grey bodies, trudging past them, _through_  them sometimes. Straight through the car without even blinking.

He doesn’t know what to make of Logan either. When Zayn tells him he’s pretty sure he’s not a demon, Logan laughs like they’re in on some joke together. He keeps trying to guess. “You’re not Base, huh?” he mumbles, “Maybe your dad is? Bifrons?” He laughs to himself, shaking his head, “No, no way. Damas? Nybbas?”

His voice is starting to trail off. Zayn keeps getting these.. flashes. These brief, blinding moments where everything makes sense. He’s in Vegas now. Or he should be.

Or he’s cuddled up with some guy whose face seems familiar, but he doesn’t know why. Blue eyes trained on him. Then he’s lying in bed, so tired he couldn’t even be bothered to change, and he wakes up and he’s.. dead.

But, no that can’t be right. Except when he finally manages to tug through the buttons on his shirt, there’s a ragged hole in the middle of his chest the size of a baseball. It’s choppy and puckered, the edges hard and scabbed, but not burgundy like blood. They’re flaked and tar-black. It’s like someone scooped something out of him. Like they dug their fist into his chest, and ripped his soul away in his sleep, then burned the edges. There’s nothing deeper than that. There’s nothing beneath the layer, like his insides have been shoved aside, and he’s just burned skin and flecks of dust and ash straight down to the knobby white crooks of his spine. There’s no ribcage, no organs, only thick puss and skin.

He’s just starting to panic, his pulse racing, breaths frantic and uneven, when Logan pulls over to the side of the road. He climbs into the back seat, straddles Zayn’s hips easy like he knows him, like they do this all of the time. He doesn’t button his shirt back up, but he holds the sides together. Stares Zayn down until he meets his eyes.

“Hey,” Logan tells him, voice gentle like he’s speaking to a child, “Breathe, dude. Come on.”

He’s holding his hands out on Zayn’s chest, rambling low until he seems less on the verge of a meltdown. It’s a stream of nonsense. About his family, his life, this night, but it calms Zayn down anyway, until he’s sitting up and Logan eases off of him, then helps Zayn into the passenger seat.

When they start driving again, the knife’s sat on the dashboard in front of them. When Zayn asks where they are, Logan tells him they’re in the city, that he’s going to drive until Zayn stops looking like he needs to barf on the upholstery.

“What’s wrong with me?” he asks, fumbling to button up, making a stoic effort not to look down again. He can  _feel_  it, though. Whatever the sap was coating his insides, oozing syrupy down his spine.

“Uh, you’re demonic, not alien,” Logan says, shooting him the sort of look his father used to when he’d ask a question with an obvious answer.

“I’m not demonic, okay?” Zayn reminds him, “Why am I..”

He can’t even finish it. They hit a dip in the road and he starts to feel sick, the gooey sap slushing around even more.

And something about it must convince Logan a little. He turns to him, more uncertain than he’s been since Zayn woke up.

Or maybe it’s just how green his face surely is by now, swallowing almost convulsively to keep the bile down. Regardless, Logan pulls the car to a slow stop again, turning off the side of the road a little to face him.

“You’re serious, aren’t you?” he asks, brows knit together. Zayn just nods. Forces himself to breathe.

“So you’re just a random dead person..”

Zayn huffs, but begrudgingly agrees, and Logan’s shaking his head.

“Then why aren’t you on the other side?”

Zayn doesn’t even have a chance to breathe before Logan’s chattering on instead.

“Fuck, this is weird. So you’re just.. dead? Like-” he thrusts his hands up to his throat and twists a little, fakes a decent gagging noise, “ _Dead_  dead?”

“I don’t know,” Zayn says, “I guess. I don’t feel dead, but I’m..” he points awkwardly to his chest.

“Well, demons don’t usually offer up five years for anyone. I just assumed you were one of them,” he smiles a little then, “Plus, you’re wearing leather boots and pomade. If you’re not a demon, you’re the least fashionable gay guy I’ve ever met.”

It’s almost instinct to correct him, but his mind zeroes in on the five years instead. He doesn’t know why. Everything else is just as absurd. But something about that number makes his throat tight.

“Five?” he croaks, watching the streets blur a little around them. An even thicker mist settling in, coating the road, drowning out their headlights. Logan doesn’t even slow down. He digs right into the center console and plucks out a thin envelope, dropping it into Zayn’s lap.

There isn’t much to it really.

In neat, almost child-like handwriting, are directions to pick Zayn up and keep him safe for as long as it takes. And an address. Not one that rings any bells, but he supposes it’s where he’d turned up at.

Logan quickly assures him it’s true.

“Yeah, dude,” he says, running right through a red light, “and the payment. I had to take it.”

Sure enough at the bottom of the page, there’s a line drawn and beneath it, “Five years” is written out as neatly as the rest, and Zayn doesn’t know what to say.

They sit in silence for a while before it starts to feel like too much and Zayn’s clutching the letter in his hand so tight, afraid if he looks at it enough, it’ll start to make sense.

“Why do you think I’m a demon?” he asks, just for something to say.

“Well, no light for one.”

To which Zayn quickly responds that Logan doesn’t have a light either.

“I’m dead, too, kind of,” he tells him, turning at the next street, then straight again down an alley so narrow Zayn feels like he could reach out of his window and touch the brick wall on his side if he wanted to.

They drive like that a bit until Logan slows to a stop.

It’s a bit wider here, but still narrow enough that he has to squeeze from the passenger side, doing his best not to nudge the metal against the brick, half convinced Logan would murder him right there, five years or not.

While Zayn’s trying to gingerly close the door, Logan’s digging through the boot of the car. From inside he grabs a thick hourglass. Almost twice the size of his head. And a can of spray paint. With that, he sidles up to Zayn and starts to ink a wide white circle into the brick. He sprays a line right down the middle, then shades in the right side of it until it looks like a half-eaten pie.

He hands Zayn the hourglass then, spinning it over so the chunky glitter inside can just start to fall.

“Alright,” he grins, rubbing his hands together, “Time to summon some fucking demons.”

            Zayn’s never wanted a cup of coffee so badly in his life.

—

             

A New Calvary is the tallest building on Third street. Probably the tallest in the city. It’s all white stone.

            Harry’s early to the ceremony, but he’s not the only one. Niall’s on the other side of the church’s auditorium, sitting with his brother, Greg, and Greg’s wife and daughter. When Niall waves, Harry pretends not to see, sitting as far back from the pulpit as he can. His parents still haven’t come in yet, but their old school headmaster saunters in, wobbling like a penguin down the center aisle. His suit so tight, he can barely seem to breathe. His light is a muddy brown like his shoes, hanging by his shoulder.

            Then it’s a few teachers from their primary school. The bagger from the shop down the street. Neighbors and friends until the church is nearly full and the last to enter is Liam’s dad.

            Revered Des stands at the pulpit with his booming voice ringing all through the chapel, reminding everyone why they’re here as if they could have forgotten.

            Once it’s died down a bit, and the music has stopped, he’s a bit calmer.

            “Does anyone have a verse in mind?”

            Harry can feel it then. He can literally feel the eyes on him. Some people turn in their pews to watch before he even lifts his hand. His palms are sticky, and he has to clear his throat before his voice can seem to work.

            “I do,” he says, standing on shaky legs, “Or actually, I have two.”

            After a pause, he reads them aloud like he had that morning. “ _Fear not, for I am with you. Be not dismayed. Do not fear.”_  It feels different, though. It doesn’t feel like goodbye this time, it feels like he’s hammering the nails in himself.

            When he’s done, it’s silent for a while like always when the verses are read at funerals. People take the time to think about them. Most walk up and offer Harry quaint condolences. Liam’s dad as well, but not as many. Geoff Payne is a statue in his place near the altar.

            Once the moment is done, they all begin to line up, trailing forward to where Liam’s dad is to drop money or promises on his platters. Some are small, little boys offering to mow a lawn or rake. Others are a bit bigger. Harry’s mother’s in front of him. She tells him that she’ll bring food for the next few days. That she’ll stop by in the morning to clean a little.

            When Harry gets to Liam’s dad, he can’t even look him in the eye. He digs in his pockets and drops whatever he has left on the platter. Lint and change.

            Since he’d offered the scriptures, he walks up to the altar and says them quietly there, too. For only God to hear. They’ll be on Liam’s gravestone, but it’s tradition to leave pieces of them everywhere, so Harry does, even though he hates how tedious it all feels. Like he’s the only one who cares and everyone else is just waiting to go home.

            When it’s all over, he takes his time until he’s the last one in the sanctuary, until Liam’s memory starts to feel like nails on a chalkboard.

            The first letter from his university comes a week later while he’s pretending to pack.

            “It’s Dean’s,” his mother tells him, dropping it on his bed. He nods, consumed with folding the same shirt he’s been folding for the past hour.

            He doesn’t even have to read the letter, he already knows what it says.

            In some haughty voice, an assistant with a stick up their ass.

            “This is a final warning.”

            He’s a week late for school. He never even enrolled in his classes.

            “This is a final warning before we rebuke your scholarship and you’re placed on academic probation for the remainder of the semester.”

            He couldn’t care less. He just folds and packs, shuts his suitcases and stacks them up at the foot of his bed like a wobbly tower of legos. And the next day he unpacks them and does it again. It’s been days since Liam’s funeral and he still feels like it’s not real. Sometimes he’ll be lying in bed, Louis settled into the pillow beside his head, and he’ll feel like Liam can see them. And it’s absolutely mental, but he can almost feel him there. It’s his stupid shampoo and maybe it’s just still trapped in Harry’s pillow, but he feels him there anyway.

            The next morning, Harry’s shivering in nothing but his thinnest cardigan when the train passes right by him. There aren’t that many people. They board with suitcases, though, friends and family seeing them off, waving. Empty promises to actually write this time, to try and look for a job.

            Harry just stands there with his heart in his throat and all of his suitcases jumbled at his feet.

            When Louis bobs around his head noisily, he tells him he’ll take the next train. But then the next train comes and he’s still standing in the same spot and he can practically hear Louis sigh. He’s a dark pearly color, sat up on Harry’s shoulder, angry and irritated, so cold against him it’s almost painful.

            It’s another hour before he finally leaves, and then more when he decides not to go home.

            It’s what he’s always liked about Niall. He takes everything in stride. With Harry standing there at his front door completely unannounced, he gives him a quick once-over, then steps aside to let him in.

            The first thing he says when they’re stacking his things by the sofa is, “How long do you need?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope this makes as much sense written out as it does in my head. Regardless, all of the loose ends will be tied up in the chapter after this and loads will be explained :)

When Jesus calls for him, it’s the first time Michael’s stepped foot into Heaven in decades.

The journey from Purgatory would usually take nearly a day, but Jesus pulls him close in Sorting and Michael closes his eyes, fingering at the thick leather strap on his satchel where Blue is snug inside. When he opens his eyes, they’re standing in front of a marble building wrapped in slabs of granite and ivory.

            When they enter it’s to a narrow hall with only one door on the right hand side. Engraved into the frame is Heaven’s dove insignia, then below it the sigils of both Lucifer and God. Michael knows them both so well. God’s a circle with a straight line down the middle. Lucifer’s the same, but with the right side of the circle filled in. It means peace, he knows, though for what it’s worth, in all of his years he’s only known God and Lucifer to treat each other with politeness, yet somehow still vehement mistrust.

            They stop there in front of the door and Jesus warns him quickly of their company. To the light, he spares a wary glance.

            “Sometimes they forget,” he says, “Sometimes we have to remind them,” with his hand on the door knob, “There’s a lot I haven’t told you, yet. I promise I will, but lately I’ve been.. trying to pick up the pieces.”    

            He doesn’t give Michael a chance to respond.

            Once they’re inside, everything’s circled about a wide table in the center of the room. There are papers stacked on papers and pens and markers, shreds of fabric and three steaming mugs sat in front of four chairs all around. Two are taken already.

            God’s in the first. He looks just the same as he had the day Michael saw him for the first time after his death so long ago.

            Broad and immense and dark, so dark, skin like Gabriel’s. Like a layer of tar, speckled with little pale dots across his bare shoulders. He’s wearing an expression Michael can’t read, some mix of content and curious. Even with the intrusion, he’s still staring down at the paper in front of him like it’s all that matters in the entire world. There’s a pen behind his ear. In the time it takes them to walk over, he’s taken it down and scribbled on the page twice.

            Lucifer across from him Michael has to force himself to greet politely. But all the while his hands are balled into fists, and the little blue light’s already close to his side, but he pats it reassuringly anyway.

            “Hey there,” he says, nodding to God, to Lucifer.

            God doesn’t respond, but Lucifer’s gold eyes trail him all the way to his seat between him and Jesus.

            “Michael?” he asks, once he’s sat down.

            “In the flesh.”

            Michael’s only ever seen Lucifer a few times, mostly in passing moments and never this close. When Lucifer smiles now, Michael’s not sure what he expects. Fangs, maybe. Spine points like demons have. But it’s all normal, though. Even his skin is smooth. No scales or claw marks. He’s all alabaster, creamy white from head to toe in a starched Hollister polo and jean cut offs with flip flops the color of milk, his trimmed nails painted the same white.

            “How’s your post?” Lucifer asks, leaning in the slightest bit. He sips at the glass in front of him, twirling a honey dip, calm air as if this meeting isn’t out of the norm.

            “It’s fine,” Michael clips, setting Blue down on the table in front of him. Balanced on a tiny mountain of papers, but Blue doesn’t seem to mind. He’s bobbing around, shining brightly, happy to just be out of Sorting no doubt.

            “And how’s our friend?” Lucifer asks then, looking pointedly at the tiny light.

            “No one’s come for him yet,” Michael tells him slowly, not liking the tiny smile that never seems to go away.

            There’s a silent exchange between Jesus and God then. Michael just stares back and forth, trying to read their faces. One looks unapologetic. _Proud_ even. Like he’s just found out he put his whole lot on the winning horse. The other is brooding.

            Lucifer laughs softly, points at the two, winking at Michael like they share a secret.

            “Who would have thought one evil little soul could mean so much?” he says, eyes the same color as Blue now.

            “He’s not evil,” Michael says, insists. Feeling small and insignificant between them all, but protective nonetheless. _He can’t be a demon,_ he’s thinking _, Demons don’t have souls._

            “No, of course _he’s_ not a demon,” Lucifer smiles, turning directly to God as he finishes, “his body was just taken by one.”

             Jesus referees quickly, “We promised-”

            “To be civil, I know,” Lucifer says, “Though why I’m supposed to sit back and let him ruin everything I built is beyond me.”

            Words that, it would seem, were akin to tossing gasoline on a fire. God stands so abruptly he nearly turns the table over.

            “You _built_?” he seethes down at him, the page in his hand now a crumble in his dark fists, “You live in ruins. You sculpted a mockery of Heaven.”

            Lucifer sighs, like he’s gone over this a dozen times before. “Well, what do you expect when you give me a wasteland and hundreds of sticks and stones?”

            “For you to-”

            “ _Father_.” Jesus clips, mediating yet again.

            It takes a few moments for him to sit down again. When he does, he stretches out the paper he’d crumpled, setting it in front of him.

            “Our understanding is peace,” he says slowly, his hands folded over the page, “Until we can agree on terms.”

            When Jesus nods, seemingly just happy that there’s less tension, Lucifer leans back a bit more in his chair, tapping his nails on the side of his mug.

            “I do have one question,” he says, soft like he’s musing, “Why Desdamier?”

            The name slips in between Michael’s ribs like a knife, like cold steel. It’s an old one, dawn of time old. One of the first Rank angels, those who God created to be his first legion. Lucifer was one, too. He kept charge of all of Heaven’s music. Desdamier was a different lot then. He had the power of healing and council. When Lucifer was cast out, some of God’s first legion followed him and they came to Hell as the most powerful beings there. Now Base demons instead of Rank Angels. And Lucifer had seemed to put all of their gifts to great use.

            “It’s a wonder you have the audacity to test me,” God says.

            With something more than mild amusement finally, Lucifer sits up a bit straighter, “No, it’s a wonder the father of lies is so horrible at playing it close to the chest.”

            “Lies?” God snaps. A quaint flush rises to Lucifer’s cheeks, a pearly rose color down his face and neck, his eyes misting into a blank slate of white just like his skin.

            “You honestly think my children don’t talk to me?” he says, practically laughing, “You think they’re not as loyal to me as your angels are to you? _Two minutes_ ,” he lets settle between the four of them, “That’s how long it was before I knew what you were planning with Desdamier and the boy. Two minutes.”

            _Knew what?_ Michael thinks, too afraid to ask, sitting up a bit straighter, finding a little courage in Blue’s light across the backs of his hands on the table. _And what boy?_

Blue’s the smallest light he’s ever seen, and one of the faintest. And where some would burn bright enough to cast out shadows, or hum when they purred content loud shivers, Blue seemed almost naturally quiet. There was really no way to tell, but the light could have been a little boy. Or an old woman, surely. A middle-aged man. It could have been anyone. But it could be a little boy too, though..

            Jesus touches his arm. Thankfully before he probably says something he’ll regret.

            “This is bigger,” Jesus tells him, nearly under his breath. _Bigger than the light_ , he might add but doesn’t need to.

             In a moment, Michael clears his throat. Makes his voice less of a whisper. “Why are we here then? If it’s not to talk about the light?”

            “We’re discussing a plan,” God says.

            Jesus growls, “A genocide.”

            Lucifer smiles, “A little fun.”

            “ _Lives_ ,” Jesus says, and Michael remembers the ghostly figures dripping to dust in his grip, “That’s what we’re talking about here. People are dying.”

            “Yes, well they tend to do that.”

            They go on like this for what seems like hours, until Jesus is interrupting nearly every time one or the other speaks and Michael’s dragging his finger over Blue’s jar, trying to coax him into a happier color like when he’s playful but the light remains a shivering mess of almost tense blue with his edges a syrupy amber. Not that he blames him for being nervous now- the tension in the room is so palpable, it’s nearly enough to have Michael running back to Sorting with his tail between his legs.

            But he sits and waits instead. And every now and then he’s asked a quick question. About Purgatory mostly. About the sorts of people slipping through and dying there. He answers the best he can. A few are about Blue, though. These all come from Lucifer.

            Eventually, the questions stop and Lucifer makes a point to groan at his empty mug.

            “Until next time, I suppose,” he says, then adds, as if it’s an afterthought, “Oh, but what am I going to do about the souls roaming around with no place to go? Some will inevitably end up at my door..”

            Without a pause, God nods, “Until we come to an agreement, Heaven remains closed.”

            Lucifer’s smile is an ever permanent fixture. “Lovely.”

            “I beg you,” Jesus says softly now, though, “Father, I beg you to reconsider. Or at the most, agree on something between the two of you just on _this_. The rest can come later.”

            In that moment, he and God are alone. Something less than gods and subjects. Or more, maybe. A father and son.

            God’s gaze could cut through diamond. He forgets the paper. For a moment, it seems he even forgets Michael and Lucifer are there at all.

            “I built this world,” he says, “With my own hands, I built it. If I want to pass judgment, I don’t need to ask permission.”

            If it’s as frightening to Jesus as it is to Michael, he doesn’t show it. He only, with a resigned sort of obedience, nods and bows a little awkwardly in his seat.

Lucifer swirls the honey dip in his glass luke warm glass, taking a taste then cringing dramatically and swirling more. He sighs, leaning back in his chair. Content now it seems to watch Jesus and God face off silently for all eternity.

            “You touched someone, too,” God says suddenly.

            “Yes,” Lucifer agrees, “but we’re not talking about me, are we? I’m not the one who lost control of my pets.”

            Jesus is frowning. God’s hands are clenched into fists.

            Michael’s so confused, he figures they might as well be speaking in Arabic for how little of the conversation he actually understands. 

            “Pets?” He asks.

            They all ignore him.

            After a few minutes, it almost seems like they’ve forgotten that he’s there at all. God looks up from the paper in front of him every now and then to ask Lucifer pointed questions and Jesus offers quiet suggestions that Lucifer smiles at and God immediately dismisses.

            Eventually, the paper’s folded neatly and it seems the work is done. For now at least.

            “We’ll meet again,” Jesus tells him.

            “When?” Michael asks.

            “We’ll send for you.”

            He can tell he’s being dismissed. When he stands, though, God nods to him, looking at Blue’s jar like he means for him to leave it.

            If it was only God and Jesus, maybe. But not with Lucifer there, he decides. He cradles the jar in his arms and shakes his head.

            Lucifer laughs.

            “Take him with you then,” he says, “Won’t change anything,” and then Michael’s back in Sorting, clutching the light close to his chest.

\--

It’s about as shoddy as an alley at midnight can be. Damp and cold, the only break from the darkness is Logan’s headlights spilling over his and Zayn’s backs and onto the bricks.

“Calling on Mullin,” Logan says, soft and practiced like a prayer, “For Astaroth, two minutes. For Ronwe, one vial.”

At the last one, he takes a tiny glass tube from his pocket and drops it at the base of the wall, and it sinks into the ground. From the circle he’s drawn there in the side of the wall, slipping through the thick stone like water, a slim man steps out, towering over the two of them, smiling wide, readjusting his tie and then shaking something white from his trousers.

He could be a businessman on the street, a normal person just heading home from work, if not for the sickly grey tinge to his skin, the shimmering onyx scales trailing up the sides of his neck to his ear disappearing beneath his hair line. Zayn flinches when he notices the fanged points of his teeth.

            “Hey, Mullin,” Logan says. The demon smiles that much wider.

            “Hello, old friend,” he coos, the sing song of his voice thick and sarcastic.

            When he notices Zayn, it only grows sickly sweet.

            “Oh,” he adds, “and plus one. Lovely.”

            But his smile slips away just as fast.

            With someone almost eerily like awe, he inches closer, “What are you doing here?”

            A minute later, Logan’s launching into the story he’d told Zayn. About the letter- he shoves it at Mullin, motioning for him to read while he rambles. Mullin takes a moment in the middle to quickly absolve any confusion- _No, your friend’s definitely not a demon. No, I can’t be certain why he’d choose to die in such an awful outfit_ \- and Logan continues with a nod.

            “Five years?” the demon says once he’s done, whistling, studying the letter, “That’s an amazing deal.”

            “Yeah.”

            “More than amazing,” he adds, “One only someone with a lot of power could make.”

            Logan nearly stills, “Power?”

            “Well, who’d be willing to pay you five years just to babysit?” He asks, then adds a bit lower. For Logan only, but Zayn hears just the same, “And he would have to be someone important, surely. To warrant that sort of.. care.”

            After which they both turn to Zayn, sizing him up. He becomes instantly interested in the chunky glitter of the hourglass for a bit.

            When Logan doesn’t offer any suggestions, Mullin beams.

“You really don’t know who you have here, do you?”

            He’s practically giddy now.

            At which point Logan tells Mullin that Zayn’s memory’s a little “screwy” so he doesn’t really know who he is. And if Mullin could fix it, that’d be awesome.

            “Surely,” Mullin says. Then snaps his fingers.

            He turns to Zayn and asks immediately, “Do you remember anything? About your life before? About Sorting maybe? A little boy?”

            _No_ , he wants to say. But they’re both staring down at him. So he tries to bring something back, anything. It’s.. the taste of artificial lemons for a moment, sharp and thick like cough syrup. Then it slips away. The sound of someone laughing, so light he can’t even place it.

            Eventually he just shrugs.

            “Sorry?”

            Mullin’s brows knit together then and he leans in a little, touching Zayn’s temple. It’s only a second, then he’s pulling away.

            He leans back against the brick.

            “His memory’s not just gone. He’s had it erased,” he says after a moment, calmly matter-of-fact.

            “Erased?” Logan says, “What do you mean?”

            He gives an impatient scoff, “As in _taken_ , of course.”

            Mullin turns to Zayn then, “This wasn’t some demon, okay? It’s got big three all over it. Not much else can do that.”

            “Big three what?”

            “God, Jesus, and Lucifer,” Logan tells him quickly, softly.

            Zayn doesn’t even have time to consider how preposterous it is before Mullin’s coming toward him again. His scaled fingers are trailing up Zayn’s neck, stopping at his temple. He mumbles something under his breath, and Zayn feels his touch seem to warm up.

            “A pretty little clean slate,” he muses, “You know there are people who’d sacrifice so much to be able to forget it all for a little while.”

            “Someone wiped his memory,” Logan says, “He didn’t exactly ask for it.”

            Mullin cools, “Considering the circumstances, maybe someone did him a favor.”

            It’s another moment before he pulls his hand away. Though even then, he doesn’t offer a name, only looks down again at Logan’s letter, skimming it quickly.

            “This,” he says, “Here?” a slim finger bobbing under the first line of words.

            Zayn and Logan both lean in, practically knocking their heads together.

            “Someone changed the seal. This isn’t Hell’s insignia- it’s not from a demon, though someone did a pretty incredible copy. This is holy. Maybe even the same one who wiped your brain. I’d say Jesus if I had to choose. I should’ve realized. It’s layered on you,” Mullin says, sniffing at Zayn’s shoulder, “You’re coated in evil. But there was good first. Before.”

            Logan’s watching with his dagger in one hand, gripping the handle so tight his knuckles are straining, “Okay, but what’s that _mean_?”

            Mullin opens his mouth.

            Then closes it right back.

            He leans back against the brick a little, crossing his arms, “I really shouldn’t say. It’s sort of confidential.”

            His stance changes quickly, though once Logan drops another vial at his feet. He even smiles a little.

            “We had three trades a few years ago,” he offers.

            They wait for him to continue, but when he doesn’t seem to be adding anything, Logan steps in closer.

            “So? You trade all of the time. Minutes, hours, years. ”

            “These were.. suspicious,” He’s clearly loving this, being the center of attention, “Well, one was sent to replace the soul of a man on earth whose original had been sent to Heaven nearly twenty years ago.”

            Logan rolls his eyes at that. “There’s no way God would let you fuck with someone’s life like that. Let some demon possess them.”

            Mullin smiles, “You’re so sure? One was a trade, okay?” he continues, “Two were deals. For another demon possession. But not the all-consuming kind. It was more of a promise, actually. Someone promised a Base demon that if he could get a soul to off itself, he could keep it as payment. The soul, plus getting to stay on soil for as long as it took.  “And,” he makes a point to meet Zayn’s eyes, gaze dripping to his chest where he’s hollow as a grave, “They’re all connected. You just have to look a little closer.”

            He straightens his clothes a bit then, stepping back a little to the paint dripping on the wall.

            Before he can slip through, though, Zayn stops him.

            “I still don’t remember,” he says.

            “Don’t worry,” Mullin tells him, “You will. It won’t take long. These things are strong, but never permanent. Though maybe forgetting Liam would be best for you. It can’t end well. Especially considering that he’s in Hell now.”

            “Liam?”

            Mullin sighs, “It’ll come back to you eventually. Maybe you’ll have a better fate than his last guardian. ”

            He slips through the wall just as the hourglass sputters to its last breath, dead weight in Zayn’s grip.

            Logan’s staring at the wall still, though, looking about as dazed as Zayn feels. It takes him a moment, but eventually he settles his things back in his trunk and they back out. Zayn silent in the passenger seat. Logan nearly brooding behind the wheel, muttering under his breath about lost time.

They drive to the nearest 7-eleven. Admittedly seedy at this hour, but the coffee’s piping hot and strong. Zayn almost grabs the nearest paper cup, but he sees a Thor one a bit down on the counter and he fills that instead, feeling strangely… _comforted_ once it’s in his hand. He doesn’t even bother with sugar or cream, just a bit of milk. Logan pays.

            They drive a few blocks down to a motel by the water, a little man-made lake on the edge of town, surrounded by low shrubs and the tall thin carcasses of weeping willows. Curled over into themselves, stripped bare by the late chill of Autumn.

            They park on the water’s edge, and Logan leads them up to the second floor. It’s a tiny room, barely big enough for the massive bed dead center. There’s a little television on the floor by the bathroom door with all of the buttons missing except a tiny triangle for the volume, and a little bedside table, but that’s the only furniture. Not that the room’s empty by any means. If anything, it’s like Logan’s lived here his entire life. It’s full of things. Papers and trinkets and little empty bottles like Logan had used to call on Mullin before. There are mostly books, though. Just books everywhere. Zayn has to watch his step, hopping over piles of them.

            The first thing he wants to do is shower, but even thinking about trying to wash around the hole in his chest is enough to make him opt for washing up instead. There aren’t any towels, but a dozen alcohol swabs are stacked up on the edge of the sink. And a new toothbrush that’s still in the plastic so Zayn fists out a little toothpaste from the carton in the medicine cabinet and brushes his teeth. Wipes down the best he can.

            When he’s out of the bathroom, Logan’s lying back in the bed. Zayn had just slipped back on the trousers he’d woken up in, and snagged a relatively clean top from the bathroom floor. Logan doesn’t mention it when he sees him, only looks at him pointedly, dropping the letter down beside him on the bed.

            “Okay,” he dead pans, “Here’s the plan. We wait for your memory to come back. But in the meantime, do a little research.”

            “Research?” Zayn echoes slowly.

            “Yeah. Figure out where your soul went, for one. And what God or Jesus of whoever the fuck  wanted you to forget,” Logan tells him, like it was obvious, “And figure out who I’ve got to kill to get that five Jesus promised me. Plus that thing he said about Len’s other guardian?”

            “ _Liam_ ,” Zayn corrects him automatically. Even though he doesn’t remember him, it still feels important. To get the name right. Or something.

            “Oh, yeah right. Sorry,” Logan mumbles, then launches forward again, “Well what Mullin said about them being all connected. It was strange, right? How he got all spooky?”

            Spooky might not have been the word Zayn would use, but he admits at least that he had seemed different then. Like he realized he might be saying too much. And what he’d said about Liam’s last guardian..

            “Will he help?” he asks Logan, not even sure what he’s asking _for_.

            “Yeah, he’s been sucking Base cock for a promotion as long as I can remember. He’ll help if it’s in his best interest.”

            In the end, Zayn’s drifting off to Logan’s quiet chattering beside him. They’re lying with Zayn’s head at the foot of the bed and Logan’s by the head board, something almost practiced that should feel strange but doesn’t.

             When Zayn wakes up the next morning, he thinks he has sisters.

            It’s not really a thought actually, it’s more of a feeling.

            “I think I’m the oldest,” he tells Logan, shaking him awake, “I’m a big brother.”

            Logan yawns, glaring at him, “That’s great, but couldn’t it have waited, like-” he checks the clock on the nightstand, groans, “Like until _after_ five a.m.?”

            It takes a bit more prodding before Logan reluctantly sits up.

            They split what’s left of his coffee, sipping it room temperature on the bed while Zayn struggles to make sense of the memories flooding back.

            They’re comforting, for a moment. He remembers getting a tattoo, and it feels right. Like the mark on his arm suddenly has meaning. Like it’s not just a scar. Others hurt a little more. He remembers waking up in.. Purgatory. But he keeps correcting himself in his head. _Sorting_ , he’s saying, and it sounds better. _Sorting_. Then it’s someone else. Louis. Louis and he can’t help the smile that creeps across his face. Louis showing him Heaven.

            It’s slow. They’re all really slow, but they ease into him feather-light and he’s laughing for a moment. Then his eyes are tearing up.

            Logan’s just sitting there, staring across at him. Every time Zayn closes his eyes, trying to focus on a good memory, trying to make it stay, he can feel Logan’s hand on his knee.

            “Tell me,” he says, and Zayn sighs.

            “It’s.. everything. I can’t-” and then he sees Liam’s face for the first time.

            It’s just that. A glimpse. A little flash of light and Liam’s lying down on someone’s bed. It’s not his own, Zayn knows that, but he can’t remember whose it is, and he can’t remember why it’s important. But Liam’s lying across the bed and he’s scared, but he’s smiling. He’s trembling, but he’s happy, and Zayn doesn’t know why that makes his heart hurt, but it does.

            It’s a while longer before he can tell Logan little glimpses of what he remembers, but even then he starts to choke up. It’s too much to even say Liam’s name now.

            “He’s hurt,” he says.

            Logan stills, “Duh, he’s in Hell.”

            And it keeps getting muddled. He’s right there in front of him, coated in grey, though. Like the figures outside. The souls that haven’t crossed over yet. He wants to scream, trying to force it all to make sense.

            Logan offers, to make it easier, “Here, I’ll uh, I’ll tell you something about me, alright? Like a trade or whatever. While you work your shit out.”

            He’s still yawning, but sitting back. Once he’s leaned against the headboard, he drags his dagger out from beneath his pillow and drops it in his lap.

            “I guess, we could start with why I’m kind of dead. Neutral territory or whatever.”

            Zayn nods, settling in front of him with his legs crossed. There’s a long pause before Logan continues. He clears his throat.

            “So I’m sixteen, you know. But it’s more of a semi-permanent thing. Like a sell-pieces-of-yourself deal.”

            When Zayn doesn’t add anything, Logan just keeps going.

            “So I was sixteen, I mean for the first time? And I was kind of sick. Not leukemia sick or whatever, but I couldn’t really do much. I was always in the hospital. I couldn’t even play a sport which sucked ass, but whatever. Anyway, so I’m sixteen and I’m in the hospital and this guy walks by my room. He’s.. Like gorgeous. I mean, gorgeous, okay?

“And it probably sounds really weird to say,” he adds hastily, blushing a little, “but he was. Just crazy gorgeous, and he walked by my room in a full on fucking pea coat and rain boots with gloves and a scarf and a briefcase and everything in the middle of the summer, and I didn’t even think it was weird. I just kind of ignored it, but then I saw him again and it was a few hours later and the kid in the room next to me had died. He had like, cancer or something, I don’t know. But he died and I saw the guy again, he was following the nurses down the hall where they were wheeling the kid’s body away, except he had a little cage with him this time. It was just this tiny little gold thing, but I remember staring at it.

“He-” Logan shifts on the bed, his shoulders dropping a little, “He came back again a bit later, and I was half asleep. He was standing in my doorway, and I was like, annoyingly happy. I mean, I probably smiled so hard I had wrinkles. There was just something about him, Z,” he laughs, “Honestly, I thought he was an angel. Which probably makes me a complete dumb ass, but I did. I thought he was an angel, and we talked for a while. He just sat by my bed and we talked about school and my family and the new dog my dad had got me for my birthday and it was so normal, I didn’t even think it was weird when he asked me if I liked being sick. I just said no, and I was sixteen, you know, It’s not like I was super smart or anything, so then he got really quiet and leaned in and told me he could fix it and I wouldn’t have to be sick anymore, and all I had to do was make a deal..”

Between them the silence lingers. For so long, Zayn starts to wonder if Logan’s waiting for him to say something. He hesitates, but gently prompts.

“You made a deal?”

            Logan smiles, nods. He’s sad, though. Zayn can tell. Even without knowing him at all, Zayn can tell.

            “Yeah,” he answers, softly, “I made a deal. A few years.”

“How many is a few?” Zayn asks him.

            Logan smiles again then.

            “Guess.”

            “Five?”

            He shakes his head.

            “Ten?”

            Logan nods, “Yeah, ten. The first time. It was more after. It’s _been_ more, I mean.”

            “More after that?”

            When Logan nods, Zayn asks, “Ten more?”

            Logan laughs, “Fuck, I wish. No.”

            “One hundred?” Zayn asks, trying to make Logan laugh actually. It can’t be one hundred, he’s thinking, that’s insane. One hundred years in.. Hell. Even the word feels like a sickly burning pain down his spine. It should be weird to say it, but it isn’t for some reason. It’s Heaven and it’s Hell and they fit together in his mind perfectly like they’re supposed to be there.

            Logan just shakes his head, completely serious, “You’re getting warmer.”

            “One hundred ten? Twenty?”

            He hikes his thumb and motions up a little.

            “One fifty?” Zayn whispers, staring at him in awe. Even then, though, Logan shakes his head again.

            “One ninety-seven,” he says, deadly somber for a moment. But before Zayn can think to reach out and probably awkwardly pat him on the leg or something, Logan’s smiling again.

            “Alright, well that was my first bit of soul history. Give me yours.”

            Zayn has to clear his throat before he can speak.

            “Branden,” he says, “Liam’s other guardian was someone named Branden. His uncle, I think.”

            It takes a moment, but then he feels more sure. It’s less of an idea, more of a memory.

            “Branden Payne,” he says then, a little more confident, “He was supposed to be his guardian, but something changed. Or something went wrong, I’m not sure yet. He died before Liam was born.”

            He half expects Logan to just launch into another story. All he does is nod, though.

            “Dude, we’re set then,” he says. Then he’s reaching over to the side of the bed and coming back with a few tiny glass vials.

            Zayn doesn’t even have to ask what he needs them for. A second later Logan’s wrapping a strap of leather around his bicep and lining the dagger up with a vein.

            “We’re going to need a lot,” he says, pressing the edge to his skin.

            When Zayn asks why, he’s already filling the first vial, and Zayn’s fighting the urge to reach out and snatch the dagger away from him.

            “To talk to this Branden guy about what went wrong,” Logan says, “Trying to drag people up from Hell? Shit’s not cheap, dude.”

\--

The first night Harry has a nightmare and he thinks it must be because he’s in a new place. It’s always harder to sleep when you’re not in your own bed.

            But then there are two more nights of restless sleep and he’s starting to think it has to be something else.

            Regardless, he slips off around midnight. Quick, right off. And it’s all black, then he jolts awake a few hours later drenched in sweat, clawing at the sheets, welts on the inside of his palms just starting to bleed from where his nails dug right into the skin.

            He can never remember anything. That’s the worst. He _sleeps_. For hours, he sleeps. And he can never remember a dream. But they’re nightmares, he knows, judging by the way he wakes up every time like he’s just narrowly avoided death.         

            If Niall notices, he doesn’t say anything. Not even mentioning the prominent bags under his eyes, or how he’s awake when Niall goes to bed and awake when he’s up for work at five, too.

            After a week of it, he just gets up and sits around. Usually at the kitchen table with a book, or doodling on a scrap of paper someone’s left behind.

            This morning he’s sipping at coffee that’s just a hair too strong, trying to read one of the books that one of Niall’s nieces had left on the table the night before. _The Very First Rainbow._ It’s for beginners, barely a paragraph on each page, but he’s skimming so slow, he’s been on the same page for nearly a half hour.

            When Niall’s brother, Greg, comes in and pours himself a mug of coffee, he glances at his watch and offers Harry a worried look.

“Kind of early to be awake, isn’t it?” he asks, setting down across from him.

“I wasn’t tired,” he lies, looking anywhere but Greg’s face. Eventually his eyes fall on the slim crucifix hanging by the window over the sink. The clay Jesus sculpted intricately into it.  

            “We missed you at church yesterday,” Greg says.

            Harry has to force himself to meet his eyes. Even then, it’s impossible to lie. To say what he knows he should.

            Instead he shrugs, “It feels wrong to go. It doesn’t feel the same.”

            “You know, it’s okay to doubt things, Harry,” he says, gently then, “Everyone does. It’s tough when you lose someone close to you.”

            _Not like this_ , he wants to say, but holds himself back. Afraid of what he’d think if he said he’d gone past doubting. That he was on the verge of something worse all together.

            Greg’s smiling, though. A patient smile. One Harry remembers well from when he’d taught them at primary. “And I’m here, if you need me. Sometimes it helps to talk to someone with- zero ties,” he offers, “If this is about-”

            “It’s not,” Harry cuts him off before he can say his name _. Liam._

He’ll say it like his parents say it, Harry knows. Like Liam’s been gone for years.

            It’s always there in the back of his mind. He doesn’t need to be reminded. Especially not by people who barely knew him.

            For a moment, Greg only watches his hands, head hung a bit until Harry starts to feel awful for snapping at him, but he can’t make his mouth form an apology. He only stares down at the book’s open page. God’s looking down from Heaven with a paintbrush in his hand. Painting the rainbow across the sky with an almost absurdly cheerful smile on his face. “ _And God promised he’d never send another flood_ ,” the page reads, “ _He promised the people that he’d never send a punishment so great_ , _and every time we see a rainbow it’s his reminder to us._ ”

            Harry’s repeating the words in his head again and again until he starts to hear them overlap, and he realizes it’s Greg’s voice, too. Mixing with his own.

            “I have this friend-,” Greg’s saying, “I know this might be a bit presumptuous, but they helped me. When my grandfather died. Talking to them helped.”

             There’s a sharpie in the middle of the table. He tears off the edge of his napkin and scribbles on it- _Clark_

            There’s no phone number after it, though. Only a house number and street name. Greg draws a knot of arrows and lines then, apparently his attempt at directions. When he’s done, he pushes it across to Harry.

            “I haven’t spoken to him in a few years, but his address should still be the same. If you’re feeling low,” he says, then adds a bit softer, “Or alone,” Louis’ light bathing them both in hazy gold.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Michael learn some new things.

            There aren’t any new souls for two days, and Michael’s shifting his papers with Jesus sat in front of him, Blue balanced on his knee, chirping happily at being near him again it would seem.

            They’d come back from their usual meeting with hardly any progress having been made.

            In Michael’s opinion.

            Jesus, though, is almost happy. Or his version of it. He doesn’t seem somber, anyway. He offers to help Michael sort, but Michael says he can manage, so Jesus holds Blue instead and chatters slowly about Heaven and his father. Trying to answer Michael’s questions from the meeting before that hadn’t been addressed then.

“That was God’s dream when he made us all,” he’s saying, “He wanted to be loved. Worshipped, of course. Feared. But loved, the most. More than anything else.”

            Michael smiles, “ _And the greatest of these_.”

            Jesus nods, “Exactly. And he didn’t want to force it. He gave humans free will. But watched for so long while they continued to turn to evil.”

            “So that makes it okay that he’s going to wipe everyone out now? He decided to just give up?”

            They’d talked all afternoon about humanity’s end. How God had abruptly sealed Heaven off and refused anyone who died.

            “No, he.. Well,” Jesus says, “He decided to start over.”

            That draws Michael up short.

He drops the paper he’s sorting and stares back at Jesus like he’s grown a third eye.

It suddenly makes sense. Maybe not all of it, but it’s like finishing the flat pieces. _Start over?_ Life. Humanity.  

“But how does that even- He can’t just..” he stammers, remembering God’s calm voice saying that Heaven was closed.

            “It’s a.. recipe,” Jesus says, smiling a little, “A clean sacrifice, and people who need saving. He could do it a million times if he wanted to. He could always start again.”

            Michael’s still gaping at him, “But _how_? He can’t just make a new Jesus every time people start to irk his nerves.”

            He expects an, “of course not”. Maybe even another rare smile.

            But Jesus rubs his thumb across the rim of Blue’s jar and the light trails him, lapping kisses his direction.

            “God made his,” Jesus says, watching Blue chase him, “It was already done. Nearly two decades ago. But Lucifer found out, and made his own.”

            Michael shakes his head, “Lucifer? But _how_? Can’t imagine he’s gonna be blessing all of his demons any time soon, shipping ‘em up to Heaven with bibles and apologies.”

            “It’s a savior,” Jesus explains, with something so startlingly close to a laugh it makes Michael’s knees weak, “Sanctity like that can change things. Even for beings like demons.”

“That’s what they’re deciding then? To get rid of their new savior fellas?”

“It’s a trade of sorts. Lucifer’s admitted that he’s willing to toss his aside if God is.”

It doesn’t take Michael long to see the flaw in that.

“Your dad can be as stubborn as a mule when he wants to.”

“Certainly, and this is one of those times. The only time they’d come close to an agreement, God had quickly decided that he’d wait a while for people to prove their good. And if they couldn’t, he could start over again.”

“Well, how long was a while?”

Jesus all out scowls, “Fifty years.”

They sit in silence then for a while.

Michael starts to sort again. Eventually, he hums to the light to make him blush a pretty yellow.

But from nowhere, he remembers sitting in the room with Lucifer, God, and Jesus and something someone had said about a Base demon and a little boy. He can’t recall it exactly, but he tries for Jesus anyway. Once he’s done, he licks his lips, scoots Blue a little closer on the desk.

“Is he-”

“No,” Jesus assures him, “That’s a different soul.”

Michael’s not sure if it’s relief that floods through him, but it’s something warm and fast and he has to ask.

“Where’s the new.. savior then? If this light’s not him,” he says, the word feeling like lead on his tongue.

“He died.”

Michael blinks, “Kinda in the job description, ain’t it?”

Jesus nearly grimaces. There’s no longer the trace of a smile. He puts Blue up on the edge of the desk and watches Michael like he’s trying to read his intent right there on his face.

“It’s difficult,” he says, slowly, weighing his words, “There has to be suffering. And death, of course. But there’s.. The lines are delicate, Michael. And blurred. God’s savior made a choice that I didn’t. But his cross was heavier than mine.”

“What do you mean?”

“I knew from the beginning what was at stake,” Jesus says, a bit quieter, “This boy was in the dark. He was completely alone. I don’t blame him for what he did. Either of them.”

“Either?”

“Lucifer’s savior was no more than a child, too.”

Michael stills, “And just as innocent?”

He’s trying to imagine a confused child getting sucked into this craziness. But all he can remember is Lucifer’s face, the smug smile that seemed to never leave. Then the first boy through sorting who’d shivered and shattered, fell away to dust.

Jesus smiles again, that slow sad smile.

“He’s suffered, too. More than anyone deserves. And he didn’t ask for it either.”

Michael wants to ask how Hell goes about making a.. Jesus.. It seems completely ridiculous to even say. But Jesus starts to explain before he can form the words.

“It’s not like Heaven,” he tells him, “The person doesn’t have to be innocent before. They don’t even have to go through much. Lucifer touches them and their soul is his. They’re like demons, in a sense then. Heaven is off limits, only Purgatory and Hell. I’m doing all that I can. I’ve been working on making it easier, lightening the load for everyone. But I can only do so much.”

“Like for the light,” Michael says, watching Blue sadly, hating that he’ll have to give him up. Whenever this mysterious person comes for him. Does with him whatever they want.

\--

Zayn’s remembering that morning, how they’d gone down to get more coffee. Logan had put his finger to his lips and stuffed their pockets full of candy bars, dropping a handful of change on the counter before walking right out. When they’d gone back to the room, the sat on the edge of the bed with a pile of vials to the side- some full, some empty.

            Logan’s shirt had been off, sprawled on the floor somewhere. He’d Zayn’s leather belt tied around his bicep and his dagger in one hand. When Zayn had asked him why he cut instead of using the perfectly good syringe beside him, Logan had only shrugged.

            “I’ve got thin veins, I don’t know. I can never find them.”

            When he’d asked why they needed the blood at all, Logan told him it wasn’t all of the time. Only when you needed to talk with someone on the lowest level. Down there the demons don’t care about time, they don’t need it, so you give blood. But when you’re speaking to the lowest level, you have to go through the second, so you give time to the second then blood to the lowest. “I know, it’s kind of confusing,” he’s said,” laughing at Zayn’s face, “but it gets easier the more you’re in it. It starts to make sense.”

            Logan strapped the belt as tight as he could, cringing a little when his muscle flexed.

            A moment later, with a neat, practiced little nick, there was blood seeping down his skin like it had the night before. He’d pressed the end of a tiny vial to the widest part and filled up five like that before holding the towel to the wound.

            When he held out the knife, Zayn reached for the syringe instead. They’ve never bothered him. Though he’d never had to use one on himself before. He was still sure he could handle a prick with a needle better than digging in with the dagger. Part of him was honestly scared that he’d pass out. That he’d get the knife to his skin then just faint. He hadn’t said as much, just toke the needle and held his arm up better to find a vein. He pulled out the back end and paused with it there.

            Logan had put a comforting hand on his knee. Told him to talk. Told him it would help.

            So Zayn talked, pressing the needle in slow.

            He told Logan about Liam’s father and how easy Liam bruised. How his best friend, Harry was the only one who actually knew. He told him every time he saw Liam, he looked sad, except when he was with Harry. Even when he was sad then, it always seemed okay. Zayn never felt like he had to reach out for him.

            Logan had sat back and listened intently. Cringing a few times. His hands curling into fists on his thighs when Zayn told him about the lashes up Liam’s spine, how he’d lie on his stomach on his bed with his face buried in his pillow, see how long he could hold his breath. Wait to come up for air until his head was spinning and the pain was barely a dull throb. How the only person who’d been on the list to be his guardian was his uncle, Branden.

            “What do you want?” Logan had asked him.

            “To save him,” Zayn said, “It’s my fault. I was too late. I was..”

            He’d kept talking, on and on and on letting it all pour out. Remembering things as he spoke. Going back to correct something he’d said before. Getting to Louis and Heaven and stumbling over his words.

            “Louis? Your boyfriend, right?” Logan asked, his voice almost- fuzzy. Like he was talking through water.

            Zayn shook his head. Realized his eyes were closed, but he couldn’t open them. He smacked his lips, his tongue heavy and dry.

            “Not my- He was- We kept getting..”

            He felt a hand on his arm, just under the crook of his elbow and remembered that he was still pulling at the syringe. That he’d been filling vials and telling stories and he was numb. Not everywhere, but everywhere that counted.

            Logan’s voice had been so soft in his ear, patting his chest, “Shhh. Hey, here let me, okay?”

             “Not my..,” he’d tried to object. They needed vials. Vials to see a guy. It was important. He just couldn’t remember why, “He had someone. We were..” but the world was so dark and there was a tug at his arm. He drifted right down.

\--

It’s Wednesday morning and it’s so cold Harry can see his breath. He tucks his scarf closer to his neck, and pretends that he’s not alone. Pretends he’s not terrified. Pretends, since he’s doing so well so far, that his phone isn’t screeching in his pocket and his mother isn’t worried sick.

He’s ignored enough messages, avoided every familiar face. Though he knows eventually he has to go back to his life. But for now there’s nothing he wants more than to lie down, wherever he is. Anywhere. Everywhere. He wants to lie down and feel Louis against him warm like fire, sinking down into him, between his ribs slow, something blinding. A kiss that leaves him breathless. And he can’t have Liam, but Liam’s heartbeat would do. Something to keep him steady. He wants all of that. Now though, he’s going to his church.

A New Calvary’s chapel doors are always open, no matter the day. Sometimes people come in to pray alone before the altar, or drop their offerings at any time. This morning, though, he’s alone walking through the pews to the door on the further left side of the pulpit. It’s trimmed in gold, with a purple marquee labeled “Des Coleman- Senior Pastor”. No one ever knocks. Harry simply walks right inside.

Reverend Des’ office is dark, but not eerie. If anything, Harry feels more comfortable inside than he had at the door. It’s small, enough room for a desk, a shelf, and a thick chest to the side. In the corner there’s a slim standing lamp, but it’s so dim most of the light is coming from the candles spread out on what seems like any available surface. They’re pooling wax now on the book shelves, and a bit on the Reverend’s desk, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

Reverend Des is leaning on the edge. He greets him with a smile.

He offers Harry a seat, but Harry refuses. Standing, rather awkwardly, with his hands deep in his pockets. He offers a drink and Harry turns that down, as well. Swallowing thickly around the knot in his throat, feeling almost certain now that God is up in Heaven recharging his lightning, ready to bolt Harry the minute he opens his mouth.

Behind the desk is a massive slab of granite, an almost opaque grey. It rises up and up to touch the ceiling. Carved into it in thick, no nonsense letters, are the pillars of Heaven. Harry knows them by heart, has since he was a boy.

_Free will._

_Love._

_Faith._

_Compassion._

_Obedience._

_Hope._

_Forgiveness._

Though for the first time since he can remember, he isn’t entranced by them. They’re only words now.

Louis hovers just beneath the last letter, a splatter of light against the grey.

 

“Tell me what’s bothering you,” Reverend Des says, “You wanted to ask me a something?”

 

            When he hesitates, the Reverend’s voice is just as calm. His light’s nuzzled up against his hip a fiery red purring almost oval splotch.

“I can tell when something’s bothering you. I’ve known you nearly your entire life, Harry.”

And even under the circumstances, even with the nagging guilt twisting his stomach, he has to smile at that. Mercy, had it really been that _long_? When he was six and finally old enough for his first day of Sunday School, trailing into the Pastor’s office. But he’s not a little boy anymore, so this should be easier.

He’d practiced this over and over in his head from the moment he’d woken up. He’d gone over everything he’d say. Even tried to work out how Revered Des would respond.

            Eventually, he has to look away before he can say it. “How does God punish people?” He looks back once they’ve all tumbled out.

            The Reverend blinks, sitting up a bit straighter, “Punish?”

            “Or judge. Or what happens when someone does something- horrible.”

            “Harry, you know that God is merciful,” he tells him. Begins to quote a scripture. Harry cuts him off.

            “What about justice, though? I know that probably sounds insane, but how do we know that God’s punishment is really fair?”

            Reverend Des almost answers. But he looks at him strangely instead, head tilting a little.

            “We could talk around this all day, but what do you _really_ want to tell me?” he says.

            Harry has to force the words out.

Claw them from his throat where they’re lodged in like anchors. Find a little courage in Louis’ bright glow.

            “I don’t think Liam killed himself.”

            Reverend Des only shakes his head, letting out a deep breath.

            “I know what you mean,” he says, “I can’t believe he’s gone either.”

           He has to clear his throat, watching Reverend Des shake his head, “No- No, that’s not. Sir, I mean, you saw him, didn’t you? Everyone saw him. He was always getting hurt. He’d have bruises everywhere.”

            He nods and Harry stammers through his spiel with Louis offering him encouraging pulses of color every now and then.

            “He was happy,” he says, once he’s almost done, nearly breathless, “He was sad sometimes, I know he was. But he was happy, though. He wouldn’t have done something like that. His dad just..” _Broke him_ he wants to say, Broke him whenever he got the chance. Broke him so good, in so many jagged little pieces even Harry couldn’t piece him together again no matter how hard he tried, “His dad tore him apart.”

            “Geoff is certainly a stern man,” Reverend Des says then, a bit more restrained than he’d been before. Stern like it’s a cuff to the ear. Harry can read it between his words.

            “This wasn’t discipline,” he says, “He beat him.”

            “Harry, let’s not exagger-”

            “He was so used to it, too. He wouldn’t even cry anymore. He had scars everywhere. Liam didn’t kill himself. I swear, he didn’t. His dad..”

              He can’t say it, though. Even though it’s half of what he’d come here to say. _His dad killed him_.

            But Reverend Des is almost glaring at him now. And in the candle light, his dark eyes are hollow, shells of tar set into his black face.

            “That’s certainly a bold accusation,” he says, then his voice goes a bit softer like he’s realizing it’s maybe too much, “I know what it feels like to lose a friend. When I was young, a boy in my class was in a car accident. He was barely ten and had no light, God bless his soul. But we can’t make wild accusations. I know it’s-”

            “It’s the truth.”

            “- _Harder_ ,” he presses, “when the person’s so young. And I’m sad, just like you. We’re all human. It’s in our nature to want to point blame when it’s something we can’t change. But sometimes the plans aren’t what we have in mind,” Harry can practically see him at the pulpit now, hands on both sides, voice stern and lower, “Sometimes the plan isn’t something we can even understand. Sometimes the plan _is_ death. Harry, God works in mysterious ways.”

            _No_ , he’s thinking, _God doesn’t work at all_. A merciful God, a loving God, wouldn’t have let Liam suffer like that. And for so long. But he doesn’t say that.

            He only nods, cups his hands for Louis to plop down into his palm.

            He can tell the talk is done. Music’s drifting in faint from the chapel. Someone playing light on a piano. A strong voice beside it, but only a few words. They stand there.

“Come by this Sunday,” Reverend says finally, and Harry promises to try. Promises to pray.

Promises to have faith that God’s plans always work out in the end.

\--

In the dark brick, Logan holds the can close and sprays, light little dabs in a ring a few feet across. In the middle, he holds it down and drags a line straight up from the bottom to the top so it looks like a pie sliced clean in half. He fills in the right section sloppily, long strokes of white.

            “Okay,” he says, turning to Zayn, “What’s the first verse?”

            It’s nearly too dark to make out the faint words Logan had paid a demon almost a month for, and in the end he’s reading them hesitantly by the low fire of a lighter.

            “Calling on,” he squints, unable to make it out, “On..”

            “ _Mullin_ ,” Logan whispers.

            “Oh, yeah. Right,” Zayn clears his throat, “Mullin,” he says, voice unsteady, “For Astaroth, six months. For Ronwe, twenty-two vials.”

            When he says the last one, Logan drops the tiny glass tubes on the ground at the wall. Before Zayn can even take a breath, they start to sink slowly down right into the cement.

            “Okay, last one,” Logan reminds him, nudging a bit until Zayn thumbs down to the end of the page.

            “Calling up Branden Payne. _Revelation 21:4_ ,” he recites, mouth dry, “ _He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away._ ”

          The first thing Mullin says upon seeing them is a haughty, “Here to beg me for more of my world-class advice?”

            Logan shakes his head, “We’re going to do this quick, okay? We want to see someone on the other side.”

            If it’s as brash as Zayn feels it is, the demon doesn’t show it. He just rolls his eyes, leans back against the wall.

            “Who then?” he asks.

            Zayn clears his throat, “Branden Payne,” and Logan adds, “First level.”

            “ _I know_ ,” Mullin snaps. When he sinks back in, they stand there in silence.

            It takes a moment, but then there’s another form coming through the wall like Mullin had. It’s hunched on the ground, though, leaning in over itself. It’s unclear, more fog than anything else. When Zayn asks Logan if something’s wrong, he tells him it takes a while for all of them to get back.

            “Dead people in Hell aren’t like demons and angels and you and me,” he says, “The Earth has to like, make sense of them again, remember them or whatever.”

            After a beat, Zayn asks how Logan found the alley the first time, feeling his heart beating almost out of control. Being so close to Liam’s uncle, so close he could touch him. Being so close to getting answers finally.

            “My dad,” Logan says, “He didn’t know about any of this stuff, but he was always curious. He read all of the time and he used to say it’s good to be prepared and like, know where the power is. He died when I was-”

            “Sixteen?”

            Logan smiles, “Yeah, but it was around my twentieth birthday. Twentieth sixteenth or whatever. You want to know what he told me right before?”

Logan laughs, then just keeps going, “He told me not to do anything stupid.”

            “Yeah,” Zayn says, shaking his head, “Like summoning the fucking dead, right?”

            “Hey, do you want to know about Liam’s guardian or not?”

            Well, he can’t exactly object at this point. Especially when the hunched form starts to really take shape. When they can make out his curved spine, the bony remains of his calves and thighs. His fingers curved in holding onto something long and wooden.

            A stake, Zayn realizes, starting to feel a bit queasy. The thick chunk of wood goes right through Liam’s uncle’s chest and back, disappearing through the wall again. Half on Earth, half Hell.

            His hair on one side is matted down, light curls just like Liam’s but sticky with something dark and thick. Little metallic snips catch the light and Zayn looks a bit closer, then leans away, swallowing thick to force the bile back down his throat.

            Stitches.

Stitches and the bent jagged corpses of old staples and the large curve of the handle of a pair of scissors, all jammed into his head just over his right ear. Moving the slightest bit when he breathes, when he shivers, shoulders rising and falling, bony knobs swallowed up by the tattered frame of a navy blue police uniform.

            On his knees, head bowed and arms up, Branden’s cowering away from some unseen attacker. A wobbly stream of, “No no no no, please,” pouring from his mouth like a prayer that’s a little too late.

            _But what_ \- “Is that.. snow? On his jacket?”- _makes you think it’s burning?_

            Logan nods. Takes a step forward.

            He’s holding his hand out, same dazzling easy smile, but Zayn notices that he never takes his other hand from his pocket. Probably wrapped around the dagger should anything go wrong.

            “Branden, right?” he says to him, soothing voice like he’s speaking to a wild animal, “Branden Payne?”

            When he doesn’t answer, Logan only trudges on, sounding just as eager.

            “Hey, so we’ve got a couple of questions, and if you could answer them, that’d be incredible. Well, mainly _he’s_ got a few questions. Or just, you know, one major question actually,” he chatters on like that for almost a full minute.

            Branden doesn’t look up once, and the shivering doesn’t stop but the muttering does. Words fading to ragged breaths then finally they can’t hear anything except a low sticky sound, popping and oozing when his hands fist more on the wood and it moves around in his chest.

            “I just want to ask you about Liam,” Zayn says suddenly, watching the hourglass like last time, hating how fast the glitter is spilling over.        

It’s not the hesitant approach Logan was trying, but it seems to work. Branden’s head jerks up more and he looks around them, almost like he’s expecting Liam to be a little boy huddled behind them, peeking out past their knees. His left eye starts to roll back in his head, a shaky trail while the other stays trained on Zayn’s face.

“Yeah, Liam,” Zayn says, “He’s in trouble. We just want to help.”

            “Liam?” he breathes, chest rising like he’s actually taking in air this time. And he’s alive for a moment, watching, waiting.

            In the slightest whisper, Branden’s voice settles over them- “ _I prayed. Every night._ _I prayed for it to stop_.”

            Zayn stills.

            “Wait, _what_ to stop?”

            But by now, Branden’s practically talking to himself.

            “I could see them,” he groans, “All of them. They wouldn’t leave me- I couldn’t sleep. Their faces.”

            “Who?” Logan says, taking a few steps toward him.

            Branden shivers, dragging the stake forward an inch or two, “I just wanted to make them go away. I didn’t want to.. Not at first, I swear.”

            His shoulders hunch even more, “I’ve never felt it before. I didn’t think there was sadness like that..”

            Zayn’s patience at this point is basically chugging along on fumes.

            He’s watching the hourglass, the glitter that’s draining so fast. The words just tumble out- “Liam killed himself. With _your_ gun, he killed himself.”

            If anyone’s more shocked than Zayn, it seems to be Branden. Earning Zayn a horrified look from him, and an almost proud look from Logan.

            “No,” Branden mutters, “He- He can’t, it’s not-”

            “Well, he did,” Zayn says, almost breathless, “So I need to know, okay? Please. Why didn’t you want him? Because his dad was-”

            “Geoff?” Branden croaks, like he’s waking up from a dream. He closes his eyes, though.

            Logan steps in closer, “He kicked his ass, dude.”

            “No, my- my brother wouldn’t do that,” Branden says slow, brows knit together, “Not Geoff. He was always so.. alive. Never cruel. He didn’t think he’d ever have a family, but he loved Liam. He really did. When Karen got pregnant, it was- I’ve never seen him so happy,” he shakes his head, looking from Zayn to Logan with a short exasperated laugh, “He was crying when he called me. _Geoff_. Crying. It was like he was a different person. I’ll never forget it.”

            The tiny hourglass is skirting the end now. Zayn keeps stealing glances, watching the pebbly flecks licking the rim, spilling over. Seconds and seconds and Liam’s uncle is shaking his head.

            “It’s you, right? You wanted to help him? Zayn?”

            His head snaps up like a whip.

            “How do you know me,” he says, stepping closer. Logan grabs his elbow, but he shrugs him off. The man’s voice drops a little, glancing around quickly.

            “They talk,” he says.

            “Who?”

            “Everyone,” Branden says, “Even the Base demons gossip like teenagers.”

            Logan makes an offended scoff at that, but Zayn hushes him.

            “I heard someone wanted him, someone scarred, someone named Zayn, but that’s all I knew.”

            He watches him now. From the tips of his shoes up to his face like he’s searching for flaws, like Liam’s up in his room getting ready and Zayn’s at the bottom of the stairs in a cheap rented suit, a corsage in one hand, and a seedy smile.

            The thorough inspection only takes so long though, then there’s a thick crunching sound like the wall behind him is breaking, and he stares at Zayn with his brown eyes wide and afraid.

            Zayn turns to Logan, but he just shakes his head.

            “Time’s up,” he shrugs, “Maybe we can buy more later.”

“Wait- Wait, no,” Branden’s shivering again, even harder now, “Please, I can’t go back there. You don’t understand what it’s like.”

            He’s staring back desperately, hands gripping the stake painfully tight, but he’s fading already, the smoky gray of his fingertips now so pale they’re barely there.

            “I’m sorry, dude,” Logan mutters, feet shuffling, rubbing the back of his neck, “I could only give a little. Neither of us has..” his voice trails off. He gestures to the middle of his chest where his soul should be, “I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do.”

            Zayn turns away when Branden starts crying.

            He’s nothing more than a wisp of smoke now, a smudge of grey against the dark brick wall. His muttering turns to whimpers and Zayn tries to tune him out, but the noises don’t fade. Even worse, Logan’s voice carries right over them, thick tendrils of searing pain in the hollow pit of Zayn’s stomach.

            “Hey, but it’s not so bad,” he’s saying, softer than before, “Your nephew’s there now, too. You can go find him, right?” he says, “so neither of you has to be alone.”

\--

Harry has to take two buses and walk a block or two, until high rises fade to prim office buildings to cracked sidewalks spilling over with weeds in front of bullet homes so small the window’s open in one and he can see clear through three rooms to the furthest wall. It’s another block before he sees the slim sign for Bricklemore Lane.

It’s pitch black, just past midnight, but the street’s darker than those around it. It _seems_ , anyway. There are streetlights, but they’re dim, only casting light on a few feet around them and leaving the rest of the sidewalk to shadows.

Each house he passes is boarded up, caution tape stretched tight across the doors of a few. There’s almost nothing here, except for the pulsing light near the end of the street.

He’s thinking that Greg’s friend, Clark can’t possibly live here. That no one could.

Regardless, he walks a bit more until he comes to a single shop- _The Gold Cage,_ in hand-written letters on cardboard, tacked up above a slim metal door. Shining rather gloomily beside the sign is a neon wired detail that he’s sure must have been shaped like a martini glass years ago, but now it’s dented so badly, it’s nothing but a smidge of acid blue on the side of the wall. He pulls out Greg’s directions and Louis settles on his wrist, shining on the page so Harry can read. Not that it does much good. “Bricklemore Lane” is the only discernible thing it seems. Everything else is a cluster of lines and bubbles. He’s lost. He’s completely lost, but he knocks anyway, pulling back a little when he hears shifting inside the shack-like store. It’s paper rustling, then something heavy sliding across the floor, more paper. Eventually the door swings in and he’s sure his jaw must drop nearly to the cement.

            “Hi?” he offers hesitantly, holding his hand out for a woman who’s wider than she is tall. Practically naked, rolls of pale flesh spilling out of a tube top and jean cut offs. Her feet are bare, nails so long they’re curving over to touch the ground, painted a mossy jade green. She’s so short, the top of her head barely comes to his chest, hands propped up on her plump hips. Her light’s a fluffly clump of light purple on her shoulder.

            She only looks surprised for a moment, coughing a little, waving a dusty hand around in front of her face. But then she laughs.

            “And what do you want then, love?” she asks with a filthy smile. Her dark eyes follow a heavy trail down to his groin.

            “Uh, You’re not Clark, are you?” he asks, feeling absolutely ridiculous. Blushing at her forward gaze, the husky tone set in a face that could easily be his grandmother’s.

She shakes her head, her bone-thin hair shifting in silver waves over her thick shoulders, “I’m Aglas.”

            “Oh.”

            “But I can be Clark,” she says then, winking at him, her lashes lined in something so thick they can barely move, “Whoever you want, sweetheart.”

            Before he can respond to that. Or stop gaping, she frowns.

            “You look like you’re having a rough day. Come in for a bit, yeah? D’ya wanna’ talk about it?”

            “Well, I’m actually looking for someone,” he tells her, finally getting his mouth to work properly, “There’s a Clark who lives on this street? He’s a friend. A friend of a friend, I guess.”

            She shakes her head. “He died a long time ago, hate to tell you, honey,” she says, smiling again. Beaming up at him, “But what did you need? I was only polishing up a few crystal balls, I could probably help you out.”

            If he wasn’t convinced already, he certainly is now- she’s mental. His voice all but cracks, “Did you say crystal balls?”

            “Yeah, c’mon in and see the shop.”

            He should probably be heading back. But it’s already dark. Already approaching morning. It’s not like staying a few minutes will change anything.

            Still, he hesitates, but then remembers, so abruptly he feels a heat behind his eyes that makes him blink at tears. Liam’s voice is there, so clear in his head even his light rushes up to his neck and pats him to soothe his anxious breathing.

            It’s a memory, or a dream. But Liam asks him, his eyes wide how they get only when he’s seconds away from blushing embarrassedly at having said something. _What does it feel like?_

            A memory. Now Harry knows for sure. His own voice answers back, “Magic.” In his head, it’s so high. He’s in a hard desk. Louis’ folding himself into his laces. “Like if magic had a feeling.”

            It’s gone then. But Liam’s voice is the faint rise of a bruise, stitching itself closed behind his eye lids. It doesn’t fade. _What does it feel like?_ he’d said, watching Louis like he was waiting for him to sprout wings. 

            “What do you sell?” Harry asks Aglas, practically through the door.

            She smiles, “The truth.”

            When she offers to brew them a few cups, even though he insists that he’s fine, she pats him and balances a kettle on a hot plate on a shelf anyway.

            He looks around while she’s setting their mugs out. It’s mostly junk, he decides, skipping the books to ogle at the trinkets scattered haphazardly on shelves all about. There are plenty of little boxes.  Some sealed, others with heavy dead bolt locks. Some even strapped in chains. There are a few painted skulls, too. Bright, almost gaudy colors. Tiny things he could wrap his entire hand around, missing teeth, with chipped jewels wedged into the eye sockets. Priced so low there’s barely reason for tags at all. Everything’s a few cents. Even the sofa is marked. The largest bookshelf, snug at its top touching the ceiling, is ticketed with a rosy-red clearance tag.

            At the end of its frame, the wallpaper has such a big hole, he can see right through to the pale pink wall beneath it. But past that, though, he thinks someone’s sketched right onto the wall. There are choppy, jagged lines dragged down into something that looks almost like a mountain. He looks to the right of it and there’s another one. More rigid than the first. It’s capped with snow and detailed, tiny huts drawn into the side of it. Cliffs marked with posts and even a flag pole at the top with a flag waving in some imaginary wind.

            More and more it stretches until there are a cluster of mountaintops, all with flags wedged into massive rocks. And just below them, a compass drawn out in dark blue ink.

                It’s a map, he realizes, taking a few unsteady steps back. From there he can see it all better. How it stretches to touch the walls on either side, a perfect fit like it was made to be here, but he still feels like he’s dreaming. Trying to make sense of it all. Of the work put into each piece. Of the label to the side that’s thick, but fading.

            “ _Hell_ ,” he says under his breath, just testing the word out, making sure it’s still as ridiculous as it’s always been. There were stories of course, of demons and torture, mostly to scare them when they were children. He can almost hear his father’s voice now- “Where do bad boys go, Harry?”.

            And it’s insane, but he can’t look away. The dark paper stretched out, inked through with wiry images of a world that doesn’t exist.

            It’s split into sections, one on top of the other like Hell’s a three story building. The first, on the bottom, is unmistakably rugged, caves and pits and hills of stone and fire. It’s exactly like the Hell he’d seen in the black and white pages of his older sister’s comic books, a fictional world that’s constantly burning. There are people in the map’s flames, mouths open sketched mid-scream. Dismembered bodies strewn about being dragged off by creatures with ridged spines and jagged teeth like sharks.

            He squints, half mad to think he’s really seeing it, but no, there it is as clear as day. Just off to the left there’s what looks like a doorway. The wide doors of an elevator snuck into its frame. He starts to point it out to Aglas, but when he turns she’s lounging in her desk chair with her feet propped up, head bobbing to some beat in her head.

From the elevator down, the next level is a collage of straight lines and little blobs. Bookshelves. They’re endless, it seems, stretching back so far. Rows and rows of books with cages between them. They’re like the bird cages he’d seen at the zoo on a class trip. These are all empty, though. Stacked on the shelves with tags like they’re for sale.

            To the left where there had been an elevator on the first level, on the second there’s a wide desk with a man sorting papers. Or a demon, Harry corrects himself, though the man looks normal enough. He’s dressed in a button up shirt, dark hair slicked back, a feather behind his ear. In front of his desk there’s a line of demons waiting for something. Papers, he guesses. They’re all carrying cages, too, but theirs are filled with lights. Some balancing two or three on their hips. A sign above the demon at the desk reads, “Astaroth” and Harry wonders if it’s his name or if it means something in another language. Or maybe if it’s both.

            Just by the desk is what looks like a rickety metal ski lift, half rusted away, but strapped in to a harness strung up with rope bolted straight down to the last level where he starts to think he must really be seeing things because it’s all frozen.

            It’s nothing like he’d imagined. Every inch is covered in snow. Going so far back, it’s immense, a tundra, an entire world. Flatlands of ice, frozen lakes, and taking up nearly half of the entire bottom of the map is a great black castle, smoke billowing from a dozen towers. These thick notches in the creamy black stone. It’s hideous and old, practically dilapidated, but flags billow from its highest points. They’re pure white like the snow that surrounds the castle, with nothing but the skeleton of a black bird stitched into the bottoms.

            “Is this real?” he asks then, not even sure if the question makes sense. Even his own voice now seems too loud, too thick.

            Aglas squints at him, “The map? ‘Course it’s real. I made it myself.”

            “You _made_ it?”

            She props her hand up on her hip again. By now, it seems weird for it _not_ to be there.

            “I made it, yeah,” she tells him, glaring for all she’s worth, “So what, I’m just a pretty face? You think I can’t make a damn map?”

“No, no, I mean.. It’s Hell.”

            “So?”

            He can’t even help it, the nervous laughter just sort of spills out.

            A year ago, he wouldn’t have questioned it. He’d be thinking that she’s lost her mind. Hell. Smoke and mirrors. Of course there’s no Hell.

            But a year ago he had Liam. And a year ago he was still waiting and praying and a year ago Liam could have gotten his light any minute. A year ago Reverend Des wasn’t a stranger. A year ago there wasn’t a phone call in the night to his mother, neighborhood gossip about the sound of a gun shot.

             “It exists,” Aglas says, walking over towards him, but it sounds too good to be true. For there to be a place where every evil goes. It’s too easy. But she’s touching his elbow, her hands rough like sandpaper, a strong grip, “Trust me, it exists.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shhh this is my favorite chapter so far. I just really liked writing it. It's supposed to explain a lot, so I hope I executed those bits alright :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is finally over. Wow. I'm actually so tired right now I don't even know if this makes any sense, but it's done :) so I feel alright.

Blue’s restless all morning, but Michael can’t do much to comfort him.

Today there are more demons in Purgatory than he’s ever seen. Walking around the fields, drifting through the trees like ghosts, their long thin shadows seeping into everything they come close to.

For whatever it means, they steer clear of Sorting, though, and Michael’s glad for it.

 He feels this warm anticipation, waiting for Jesus to show today. His bag’s beside him and he’s sorting because there’s nothing else to do.

When Jesus finally walks into Sorting, he’s actually wearing a shirt. It’s a little too loose on his midsection, but stretches the fabric at his shoulders, a thick equal sign slapped across the front.

Without a greeting, he takes a seat across from Michael at his desk.

“Not today,” he says, watching Blue perking up at the sight of him.

“No meeting?” Michael asks.

Jesus shakes his head, “Meeting, but no change.”

The mood plummets. So low even the light’s purring doesn’t help Michael with the urgency he feels to just do _something_. Waiting is the worst. His grandfather would always say that, but Michael had never understood it until now. Waiting for someone to take Blue away. Waiting for God and Lucifer to stop acting like children and let souls back into Heaven. Waiting, just waiting forever.

“Michael?” Jesus says his name like he’s been trying to get his attention for a while, “The light,” he tells him, patting the glass, “It will be gone soon. I’m.. trying. But there’s only so much I can do without truly interfering.”

            “What about me?” Michael asks.

            Jesus’ frown is back. Sinking down the deepest he’s seen it.

            “You’ve looked, haven’t you?”

            Michael feels his stomach turn.

            “Looked where?”

            Jesus takes a long breath.

“Lucifer and my father only meet on the most dire occasions, and even then, there hasn’t been another soul allowed to witness for as long as I can remember. Haven’t you wondered why you come to the meetings? For now you’re Blue’s guardian. It’s why you’re there with my father and Lucifer and me. It’s why the light’s with you instead of somewhere else. It’s.. not ideal, but the way it has to be for now.”

            It should probably be something of a surprise, but Michael doesn’t feel any different. He’s been protective of the light since it came to him. He’s never guarded anyone before, but he’s sure it must’ve been like this. Constantly worried that they’re not okay, wanting the best for them, dreading when they’re anything but bright and annoyingly happy.

            He just nods. Sure, of course. His guardian. Why not.

            Jesus goes to stand then and Michael stands with him. Sees him off with a tip of his Stetson.

            Jesus offers a solemn, “I’ll be back soon.”

\--

Mullin comes back through the brick shaking snowflakes from his hair, brushing clumps of them from his shoulders.

            “How was it?” he asks, “Helpful?” smiling with something a grade above indifference.

            By the time they’re back in Logan’s car, back on their way to the hotel again- Logan says home with this childlike definiteness that makes Zayn wish he could feel the same way. By then, he feels a little less overwhelmed. There’s still the pervading.. memory.. but it seems far away. There’s Branden Payne and Hell and then a ravine with _now_ on the other side.

            “What are we going to do?” Zayn’s voice cracks. He’s been trying to close his eyes for nearly a minute.

            Logan taps the brake like he might stop for this next red light. But then he presses on the gas again and they roar through it.

            He looks at Zayn out of the corner of his eyes. When Zayn says that he didn’t expect it to be like that, that bad, Logan laughs.

            “Dude, it’s Hell,” he says, “That’s tame for the first level. I honestly didn’t expect him to come out in one piece.”

            _Why didn’t you tell me?_ _Warn me?_ Zayn’s brain struggling with his heart.  He should have known. Heaven’s evil other half and Zayn was surprised by misery?

            “It didn’t help, though,” he says, more to himself than for Logan, “It’s not going to help Liam. We don’t know anything we didn’t already. Branden killed himself. Liam’s dad’s still fucking breathing.”

            Logan looks at him for a moment, steady stare.          

“But we did, though. Weren’t you listening?” Logan says, “Branden wasn’t himself when everything was happening and neither was Liam’s dad.”  

The way he says it makes Zayn feel like he’s an idiot, this grand revelation that’s passed down in children’s stories.

It hits him then. “You think Liam’s dad was possessed?” It feels like it always comes full circle back to him again, back to Geoff Payne.

Logan’s car is fairly neat, but there’s usually a mini-tower of paper coffee cups stacked up in the center console. Before he answers, he grabs one and sniffs before taking a sip. They pull in to the hotel parking lot and cut the lights, idle in darkness.

            “No, I mean- Okay, yeah. Possessed. But not by some half-shit demon. This was, what? Liam’s entire life? Nineteen years? That’s beyond Base, like beyond the strongest. If you want to lay it on someone thick like that, you need a lot more power.”

            Zayn sits up straighter, Louis’ voice whispering in his ear, two seconds and his hands are shaking- _a kid with too many toys_.

            “Who?” he asks, afraid to hear the answer.

            “Who what?”

            “Who has that much power? Enough to do that, I mean? Have a demon possess someone. Make them.. evil, I guess, for that long.”

            Logan finishes the coffee before he answers. Thick and tepid probably, chugging it down like a shot.

            “Lucifer,” he says, fiddling with the wheel cover, “Sorry, man, I know it sucks but Lucifer’s the only one who could do that. Well, Lucifer or God.”

“Not Jesus?” Zayn asks softly. Logan just looks at him.

            “I don’t- think so. Why?”

            Zayn’s tongue feels thick, heavy in his mouth. Staccato words with the dull drum of night noises behind them. “Just seemed like it would be him. He’s in everything else. Why not, right? He sent you to find me. He might have tried to get rid of my memory.”

            “Which makes no sense, by the way,” Logan pipes in, “Why wouldn’t any of them want you to remember anything?”

            “Maybe it’s why I’m important. Like what Mullin said.” Zayn has a moment or two to ruminate on that before Logan’s sighing.

            “I’ve got a pressing fucking question,” he says, turning long enough to give Zayn some meek affection of a glare, “What the hell’s up with this family?”

            In the cab, it’s just above a whisper, but it sounds like he’s shouting it right into Zayn’s ear. His chest throbs. Or what’s left of it, the skin scabbing around his cavity.

            “Seriously,” Logan’s looking over in the other seat like Zayn might just open the door and take a nosedive, “Why are they all mixed into this weird shit?”

            Zayn feels a little sick, a little dirty. “Liam’s fine.”

             “Yeah, of course. Liam’s the normal one. Your suicidal chew toy. Whose dad and uncle were basically hand-picked to ruin the guy’s life.”

            Zayn breathes, these heavy shaky lungfuls, and it takes him a half-prayer not to reach out and snatch Logan by the throat. Steady in and outs, and his chest is still pounding when he has to do a double take. _Hand-picked?_

            “What do you mean?” he asks, “About Liam’s dad and uncle?”

            Logan gives this noncommittal shrug, eerily more.. _teenaged_ than he’s been before. Tense light smudging out his skin, giving him the thick smudges of dark circles under his eyes.

            “Well, okay I’m still trying to work it out, but I’ve got this theory,” he says, looking off to his left for a second like maybe he’s thinking what Zayn is too, like maybe he could use a ridiculously hot, ridiculously priced cup of coffee right now. He bites into his bottom lip. “All that stuff about trades and demons? Okay, the first one was a demon went to Earth to basically possess someone, right?”

            Zayn doesn’t even have the energy to nod.

            “Fine, well so that first trade. I think that was Liam’s dad,” Logan trails on, “And what Mullin said about the next one being a promise that if a demon could get someone to kill themselves, the demon could keep that soul?”

            Zayn feels the words in his throat, trudging up before he can even process them.

            “And he said one trade and two deals. So then the first deal was Liam’s uncle. Branden.”

            “Sure,” Logan says, but he gives Zayn this look like he wants to say more. Eventually, after a moment or two of too long a silence, Logan just groans.

            “Alright, look, Mullin said two deals but he only described one, so I guess we’re supposed to assume it just, like repeats or whatever. And it’s already two people in a family so the last deal might as well be Liam, so don’t look at me like that.”

            Zayn snorts, uncurls his fists, “Like what?”

            “Like you want to hit me.”

            “Fine, just- say it. Liam’s like his uncle? A demon got a deal so they could try to get him to kill himself and keep his soul after. Liam’s the second deal.”

            It sounds right. Fits together perfectly. All Liam’s life he’d been followed around by that woman, that demon, that _thing_ , and in the end she’d taunted him to pull the trigger.

            Three trades. What had Mullin been on about? Zayn forces himself to think back to it. To get the words together precisely.

            Suspicious.

 Like having three trades all laced perfectly, like Logan said, to make sure Liam had a shitty life and went straight to Hell after.

            Logan’s watching him now like he wants to say something, but he lets Zayn work it out. Fiddle with it all in his head until he feels a little dizzy.

            “But why?” he asks, finally. Sure, he’ll admit that it could be the three of them that were the trades. But what he can’t wrap his head around is why God, or Jesus, or Lucifer would even go through all of the trouble. What the hell made Liam so special that they’d bother with the maneuvering.

            “I don’t know,” Logan says, “I haven’t worked it out that far, yet, but you’re a big piece of it for some reason. And I’m going to take a wild guess and say it has to do with more than you just being his guardian angel.”

            “Why?”

            “Well, Branden was supposed to be his guardian angel, too but he ended up going to Hell. You didn’t even really die, did you?” Zayn shakes his head. A hotel room. Maybe a few too many pills. But no, he doesn’t remember dying, only waking up in Purgatory and everything falling apart.

            Logan trudges on, just thinking out loud by now, “So it’s weird, right? Even when you gave up your soul, you still stayed on Earth.”

            Zayn shakes his head, “Maybe I just keep slipping through the cracks. Maybe I’m _supposed_ to be in Hell.”

            “No,” Logan sighs, “Doesn’t fit. Jesus is going out of his way to keep you safe. Can’t be that they forgot about you, Jesus definitely didn’t do that for Branden. Liam’s special, we agree, I guess. But you’re special, too.  If it’s only your connection to choosing him as your ward, I don’t know, but it’s fucking nuts, though. Weird as shit. All those trades lined up. High power players moving their pieces around. It’s like they’re setting up for something. I’ve never heard of God fooling with demons before. Or Jesus having a hand in anything that happened on Earth..”

            Through the windshield, they can see the grey shadows, people wandering around in a daze just beyond death.

            _You think they’re a part of it somehow? The people who can’t cross over?_ Zayn and Logan are both thinking it, but neither says. In the dark, and so quiet, it’s almost too creepy to voice. Instead Zayn stares intently at a smudge on the dash, something smooth and black.

            “What am I supposed to do now?” he says. Triggers a random memory of his grandmother’s rickety back porch steps.

            Logan just shrugs, “What do you _want_ to do?”

            “I want to go home,” Zayn says, admits, feels like a coward, “I know it’s- I know there’s nothing for me, but I wish I could.. stop..”

            It’s not the first time he’s thought it. Not even close. Again and again, he’s wondered if he could do it. If he could just let Liam go. Or this idea of him that he’s been chasing since Purgatory. Sparkly white ghost at the zoo with soda spilled down his shirt. Scrawny thing with a gun to his forehead..

            “I want to go home,” he says again, a little stronger. This shouldn’t have to be his life. Or afterlife. Whatever. He shouldn’t have to save anyone.

            Logan looks like he wants to say a million things, but even when they’re in the hotel, he stays silent. Only speaking up long enough to tell Zayn he’ll do whatever he wants, it’s his choice.

            “Up to you. I’ve got eternity,” he says, but Zayn knows what he’s not saying. It’s the same thing nibbling at his gut and his conscience and the strip of nerves right behind his eyes. Just seeing Branden and knowing that Liam’s in even worse shape. Branden made a choice. Tormented or not, Branden decided to pull the trigger. And Liam.. Well, Liam did too, but he was alone. Truly alone..

            Zayn goes on all night trying to justify it. Trying to find some loophole where it doesn’t make him selfish and evil to leave Liam there.. _to die_ his mind supplants but he hushes it. Not to die, it’s worse than that. It’s never-ending.

            But God, he’s so fucking tired, and he didn’t ask for any of this. He didn’t ask to die or to be a chess piece in whatever game Jesus and God or whoever are playing.

            When he finally closes his eyes, his head is throbbing, right at the temples a sharp pain that doesn’t fade but blossoms into a burn, sinks into his skull. Logan’s hand reaches for his, and their fingers fit together clumsily. Sleep comes like a freight train, takes him over.

\--

Harry doesn’t mean to head there, he really doesn’t. He’s out for a walk, just to stretch his legs, having sat on Niall’s sofa for days not eating or sleeping, just.. existing. In this constant state of morbid awareness that if he holds his breath long enough he’ll die.

            Or something.

            He’s still trying to work out the specifics of it all, but he doesn’t mean to end up here knocking on Aglas’ door, sneaking glances over his shoulder like a criminal.

            When she answers, she’s more dressed than the first time he’d seen her. In a skirt now, that falls down past her feet, dragging on the floor. She’s topless, though. Her long hair covering any parts that might otherwise be exposed.

            She doesn’t even smile. Just thrusts the door open and moves aside so he can walk in.

            “Three days,” she snaps at him, once they’re inside, “It took you three days. Don’t you think I have better things to do than wait on little boys’ balls to drop.”

             “Uhm, I- Yes?” Harry stammers, taking a step back and promptly knocking over the stack of books there.

            “Or no?” he tries instead when her glare only deepens.

            “Well, I do,” she tells him, stomping past angrily to sit down at her desk like she had the other day, “And if you want my help, you should be more considerate.”

            Again he’s grasping for straws.

            “ _Help_?” he squeaks, trying not to look at the map, but it’s nearly impossible. It sits there, mocking him, begging him to stare.

            He expects more anger honestly. But Aglas only sighs, sinking a bit lower in her chair. When she looks at him again, it’s full of pity.

“I can tell death likes to fuck with you, baby,” she says, “Your aura’s like a big piss stain on the carpet.”

            “Of your heart,” she adds when he just stares back at her, “And your life. You’re so dark. Who’d you lose?”

            _Is it that obvious_ , he thinks, _that clear how miserable he is that strangers know he’s grieving?_ The way he’d ran out of her store the last time he’d been there.. Like he’d seen a ghost..

He starts to say boyfriend, but pauses and clears his throat, sparing Louis a glance.

            “My best friend,” he says, “My best friend, Liam.”

            She gives him a knowing look.

            “The uh-” she draws up a fake gun with two fingers, cocks back, “bugger who offed hisself, yeah?”

            Louis settles in on the top of his shoe, nestles into his laces.

            “It wasn’t really like that,” Harry says, his throat tight.

            Aglas doesn’t even seem to notice it.

            “So that’s it, then?” she asks, “You want help with that?”

            Again. “Help? He’s.. gone. There’s nothing you can do. But-thanks.”

            A little empty word. Something like sorry.

            “Right. Right,” she says, ambling over to snatch a plastic bag from a shelf close to where they’re standing. From it, she pulls a handful of letters. She drops most of them on the floor, flipping through until she finds a black envelope that she cheerfully waves in Harry’s face.

            “You’ve got friends in high places, you know,” she tells him, like it’s supposed to mean something.

            When he just stares at her, she starts to hand him the envelope. Then reconsiders and sticks it into her waist band instead.

            “Maybe for the best that you don’t know just yet,” she says, “Now let’s talk business, yeah?”

            Business- Harry finds out quickly- consists of Aglas walking around with Harry trailing her while she fills his arms with books that she plucks hastily from shelf after shelf.

            He has to put a stack down on her desk and start over again, and she still doesn’t seem to be slowing down.

            “I’m trying to remember how it goes,” she tells him, “It’s been a long time. I’m not as young as I used to be. Mind’s fading.”

            “A long time since what?” he asks, huffing out a breath when she drops a particularly large book into his arms.

            “Since I checked Hell’s roster,” she says. And he’ll never be used to it. The way she says these ridiculous things as if they make perfect sense. “There aren’t many straight-to-Hell sins. Most get a second chance, except for the holy trinity- suicide, bestiality, and murder. So it’s safe to assume,” she breaks off, takes a moment to dig into the next book she sees, “your Liam’s in Hell right now. And judging by the gossip, he’s probably in the highest level, but there are only a few ways to be sure, and one’s a fuck of a lot easier than the other.”

            Harry’s fixed on _suicide_ , repeating the word again and again in his mind, but ‘highest level’ shakes him up, too. He turns to look at the map on the far wall again. Hand-drawn Hell levels with the highest a frozen wasteland.

            “Liam didn’t kill himself,” he tells her, the same thing he’s been trying to convince himself of.

            She just flips through her book, murmuring something under her breath.

            He says it louder.

“Liam didn’t kill himself. He’s not in Hell.”

            Aglas’ _roster_ says otherwise.

            She rips a sheet of paper from one of her books and takes out a lighter from her skirt pocket. She burns the page at the bottom right edge and then blows the flame out before it can spread.

            She holds it out to Harry, watches his face while he reads. It’s just a column of neat names. Down, down the list goes, name after name, but none he recognizes.

            “What is this?” he asks, still reading, hoping, “Who are these people?”

            Aglas fists a hand on her hip, “Newest additions to Hell’s highest level.”

            And just as she’s saying it, Harry stumbles over Liam’s name.

That night, he sleeps just long enough to dream about Liam burning.

A good burn, all over, flames that melt his skin down in strips and puddles. This Liam, this dream-him, doesn’t ask for help and there’s a smidge of Harry’s mind that’s awake enough not to be surprised. He never asked for help in this life either. But through these swampy memories, these cruel dreams, he remembers that Aglas had offered to help him. Whatever it meant. How could she help? What did he want that she could possibly give him?

One name comes to mind. Dream-hazy, but clear as crystal. Liam’s dad’s face covered in ash.

Heaven had been something they’d learned about as children. Church lessons in cozy classrooms, teachers with old leather bibles. Heaven was a campfire story.

But Hell was like growing up. And there was something so cruel about knowing things could change, that there was the possibility of not having forever.

And it’s insane. It’s only a piece of paper. It was only a map. But he _knows_ , though. Deep down, he can feel it. He knows there’s more to death than Reverend Des has taught them. He knows that Aglas has something real in her tiny store, the way she looks at him, how he’d known all along that there had to be a right and a wrong. For everyone, but especially for Liam’s dad. There couldn’t just be Heaven for people like that, evil people like that.

Aglas had said she’d help. She’d said for a price, but she would. And Harry dreams heavy, dreams of what he wants again more than anything.

\--

Michael should be Sorting, but he’s sitting outside instead. Watching the sun set, waiting for the perfect moment-if there ever is one. He’s not all that philosophical, but this feels important. Looking to see who the little blue light actually is.

 Besides, if he’s not mistaken, Jesus had given him the go-ahead, in his strangely cryptic Jesus way at least. Asking him if he’d “looked”. Telling him he was Blue’s stand-in guardian.

So Michael sets Blue’s jar down on the grass off from Sorting and lays out the page. On it is a chalky-white line and his attempt at a thick oak tree.

No incantation necessary. He closes his eyes, hands on either side of the light, and takes a deep breath before leaning forward and letting Blue’s glow ink out towards him.

It doesn’t wrap around him, but sinks into his skin. Then he’s standing on the side of a street he doesn’t recognize. The sun’s just about to set, the street lights are on, and there are two boys sitting on the curb beside him, their bikes scattered out on the road. The way you toss them when you jump off mid-ride.

One boy can’t be older than six or seven. His helmet’s still on, but he’s clutching at his knee and crying in hiccupy little gasps, sucking in air like his death’s imminent. His light is a soupy green color, kissing the enflamed skin around the boy’s fingers like he’s trying to soothe the pain away. Michael suddenly remembers growing up around his little cousins and seeing them cry like that, loud and almost desperate. Convinced a skinned knee or a bruised elbow was the end of the world.

The other boy is older. Not by much, Michael guesses, but the way he’s looking down at the other one, he’s clearly the older brother. There’s the protective, almost paternal way he grips his shoulder and hushes him with the promise of ice cream once they’re home.

He can’t be older than ten. He’s a gangly thing, spaghetti legs splayed out in tattered converse. But his eyes are the kindest brown and he pats his brother’s back until he stops crying.

“How bad is it, Branden,” he says, “Let me see, alright.”

When the younger brother, Branden, takes his hand away, there are three sharp gashes across his knee. Certainly not life threatening, but the older one whistles. Scratches at his chin in a practiced, shockingly adult way. Something he’d surely seen his father do before.

Branden’s eyes light up a little at that. He looks down at his knee now with something close to reverence.

“Is it bad, Geoff?” he asks.

Another long whistle.

“Yeah, probably,” is Geoff’s easy response, “You might even need.. stitches.”

“ _Stitches_?” Any of the fear from before melts away at the simple mention. He looks so excited, more than ready to try his bike at the curb again, stitches looming across his eyes, something only a head strong child could see as a badge of honor.

And just like that, Michael’s back. No give, no warning.

Purgatory’s missing the hazy gold glow of the street lights, but there’s something about Blue’s color that makes Michael pull his jar closer.

            One look at the light, and he knows.

            “Is that your name then? Geoffrey?”

Blue burns so bright at that, Michael almost jerks back. The little light is waltzing around its jar, spinning in dizzy circles and jolting out little spasms every color of the rainbow. Michael hears a game show buzzer. _ding ding ding. Right answer._

It’s strange then, seeing the light as something other than a soul. He’s not a child still. Michael’s sure of that much- he has the feeling he didn’t die until long after that moment on the curb with his little brother. But there’s still something about Blue- _Geoff_ \- that feels young and small and almost fragile, that makes Michael feel protective. Maybe it’s why Jesus trusted him to watch it, he thinks. 

            But then he still plays that first meeting over and over in his head. Jesus’ somber admittance, _I need a place to keep him safe._

Now it does more than give him chills. He can’t imagine why anyone would want to hurt Blue. Geoff. Whatever. He can’t imagine it. Watching the light still as excited as he’d been when Michael got back from his brief glimpse into the past. How every time Michael says his name, he burns a little brighter, like it’s been decades since he’s heard it.

\--

When Logan drops Zayn off at his old house, Zayn’s almost afraid to knock.

            It doesn’t matter anyway. A second later, the door’s swinging open and his mother’s standing there, staring right at him.

            Or through him, he quickly realizes.

            She waves to someone on the other side of the street, and empties the mailbox before heading back inside without a word. He follows her, almost nicked by the door.

            “Mum?” he tries. She pauses for a second. Then shakes her head and keeps going.

            By the time they’re in the kitchen, Zayn’s tried tapping her shoulder to full out snapping in front of her face, but she only stares past him.

When he calls her name, though, she pauses every time.

            He says, “Mum?”, and she stills. There’s a breath. One beat. The thrum of his heart, where he’s sure she must hear him. Then it’s over and she goes on with what she’s doing.

            Eventually he gives up. He goes to see his sisters. The oldest are on their phones, laughing and shrieking about some guy or a new show or a nail polish, he doesn’t know. But it’s nice to see them anyway. To see how much they’ve grown up. Waliyah’s sitting on the floor in the middle of their room, kicking her feet, scribbling a crooked little tree on a piece of construction paper. 

            Zayn almost stops in his dad’s office, too, but decides not to at the last minute, half convinced if he sees him he’ll never want to leave. Just stay a shadow on the wall here, calling their names and living for those pauses. Maybe he’ll say, “Dad,” and the beat will be longer. Maybe he’ll even whisper Zayn’s name back under his breath. Have a feeling or something.

            But Zayn can’t so he just leaves. Practically _runs_. Terrified if he looks back, he’ll lose Liam forever.

            When Zayn asks why they couldn’t see him, Logan admits that he wasn’t sure they would be able to. “You’re dead, so I don’t know. You’re a ghost, I guess.” When Logan asks him where he wants to go, Zayn tells him Purgatory even though he knows it’s impossible. He’s empty now. There’s no going back. There’s only Liam, if he can, and maybe Louis again, but even the thought feels like too much to hope for so he tells Logan coffee wouldn’t be so bad and they drink it in bed, watching I Love Lucy and filling vials just in case.

_\--_

Harry’s so tired, he can’t remember why he headed over to the shop in the first place. He eventually decides, though, between yawns, to walk each aisle until he remembers.

            Niall had gone to bed, Greg and his wife an hour after. By midnight, Harry had felt almost suffocated sitting up in the house alone. Then he was down the street. He didn’t have any money, but just being in the shop and people-watching at one in the morning was practically free therapy.

            The first man he sees is standing near the produce plucking grapes right from the bag. In his other hand, he’s cradling a doll with its head neatly seared off.

            Harry makes a wide arc to pass him.

            Two aisles over there’s a girl staring intently at a narrow row of pregnancy tests. She’s mumbling to herself, shifting a quick glance over her shoulder. When she sees Harry, she grabs the closest box and hurries off.

            It’s almost silent after that.

            There are still a few people, but hardly any that he notices for more than a passing glance. Until he heads for the registers and Liam’s father is walking there almost in a daze.

His eyes are wide open, but lifeless. He’s pushing a basket filled with bottles of red wine.

It takes the soft spoken clerk at the register he stumbles up to another handful of times before Liam’s dad finally turns to face her.

“Are you buying.. all of these?” she asks while he stamps them down for her to ring.

            Harry’s trying to keep his distance, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Mr. Payne’s a cardboard cutout. He just keeps plopping the bottles down, the sharp beeps of the register still only half as loud as the anguished chirps his light is making.

Harry leaves at a half-run, down block after block until his legs feel like jelly and he’s sure his lungs will collapse if he takes another step.

He’s panting when he realizes how far away from Niall’s place he is. How far from home. But not so far from another familiar spot. One he’d dismissed as lunacy at first, maybe even a very strange, extremely vivid hallucination drummed up by his tired mind.

But he hits that block and it’s still nestled into the side of a deserted street, still beaten down, still a beacon.

When he knocks, she yells for him to just come in, but hesitates on the step when she’s not alone.

            There are people milling about, checking the tags on books or skulls. A few women are laughing, flipping through a book together. A man is studying the map of Hell, staring blankly down at the lowest level like he’s waiting for something to appear there, to just sketch itself out.

            When Harry spots Aglas, she’s hunched over a scroll at her desk, a woman on either side of her. They each have a candle in hand, pouring fresh wax onto the page in three neat little mounds.

            Aglas calls him over without looking up and he all but wobbles towards her, barely sparing the lives of a few waist-high stacks of books.

            He gets as close to her as he can with the women there, and leans in, whispers, “What are all of these people doing here?”

            She turns just long enough to give him a strange look.

            “They’re _customers_.”

            “Oh.”

            Right. Of course.        

            Even though it’s late, nestled between midnight and morning, the customers stick around. After an hour of waiting, Harry just plops down in the closest available space and waits while Aglas sells her merchandise. There’s no money involved, though. One girl takes a book and hands Aglas a clump of hair tied tight with a blue ribbon. The man who’d been ogling the map pays in what look like poker chips for an arm full of jeweled skulls.

                Eventually it clears out, and Aglas locks up. She comes to him and pats his knee.

            “How are ya’ holding up?” she asks.

            He forces a nod, a half smile.

            Starts to say, “I’m alright.” Ends up with, “I never thought..” instead.

            Never thought Liam wouldn’t be in Heaven. Never thought he’d be having this conversation in a million years.

            “I wanted to ask you something,” he says.

            “Shoot.”

            “It’s about Hell.”

            She just watches him, waits.

            “About how you knew what to draw for that map.”

            She crosses her arms.

            “Hell’s not so hard to get to, you know. Especially since most people are trying to wiggle out of it. They sort of welcome a few eager visitors.”

            He stares at her, maybe a little too long to be polite. Eventually she just clears her throat.

                “What do you really want to ask me, Harry?”

            This isn’t the type of conversation you have with a stranger. Not something as awful as this. But he has a million things he wants to say.

“Liam’s dad-” A solid five seconds of silence.

            She’s as blunt as she always seems to be. “Oh, Father of the Year. You want him gone, huh?”

            “No,” he says immediately, face hot. No, it’s not that simple. What does gone even mean. “Not gone- not dead. I want him..”

            “To suffer,” she says, ‘pain’ on his temples so bright it might as well be a soul.

There it is. His mission, tied up neat and tight, like she read it right off of his brain. “He’s a monster. He shouldn’t be able to just walk away. Not when Liam’s-” there. There in Hell. He means to say it, but the words die on his tongue.

He doesn’t expect anything more than a nod. What he gets is a steady gaze and Aglas cocks her hand up on her hip. Bites into her lip like she’s trying to stop herself from saying anything.

            Finally, she says, “I’ve seen enough of fate to know that people tend to get what they deserve in the end.”

            It’s a joke. What they deserve? Hadn’t everyone seen Liam’s bruises? Where was his justice? Could they really say he deserved that? “Not this time.”

            “It’s called faith, sweetheart,” she deadpans.

            “Well, I don’t really have much of that anymore. Not in things I can’t see for myself anyway.”

            She smiles, “Saying you got faith in me, then?”

            He tells her about the market. Seeing Liam’s dad in a daze buying enough wine to put him into a coma. She takes it all in with patient nods.

            When she says they’re getting down to business, she pulls out a crystal ball-type orb from beneath her desk and sets it in front of him. While he’s slipping out of his coat, she sprinkles something onto the glass and mutters a few words under her breath. When he asks her what she sprinkled onto it, she says it’s gold cage dust, like from the same cages demons use to carry souls in.

            “It’s a little incentive for Hell. You just look into the glass there, doll,” she tells him, “Give the magic a second or two.”

            He’s not even sure what he’s looking for, but a flood of memories from cartoons and comic books force a single thought from his lips.

            “Do I have to think of something?” Happy thought. Sad thought. Angry thought- he certainly has an endless supply of those.

            “What, like Peter pan?”

            Okay, maybe not. It seems so ridiculous and childish coming from her.

            She sets a slip of paper down in front of him. There’s nothing on it except a thin green line and a slim bird’s wing drawn in pencil.

            She tells him to lick it, and then presses it to the back of the crystal ball.

            After a few seconds, it seems like nothing happens. But Aglas moves his hands so they’re on either side of the crystal. She takes a seat and props her chin up with one chubby little hand.

            “Alright, take a peek. Since you’re so damn stubborn.”

            Peering down into it, he recognizes the first few steps of Liam’s broad front porch, then a bit beyond it. It’s like looking into a microscope. The crystal’s scope is pretty narrow, but there are the front steps to Liam’s house then three or four meters.

            Liam’s lawn had forever seemed like a permanent strip of green. But what had always been leveled bushes and clumps of flowers is now a mush of dead leaves and a thin layer of frost. And Liam’s dad- splayed out across the grass.

            He’s in the same thing he’d been wearing at the market first thing that morning, only stained now with the familiar dark dribbles of spilled wine.

            He’s panting, groaning as his fingers rip at the shredded tatters of his t-shirt.

And deeper. It only takes a second or two for him to get through the fabric before he’s ripping at skin instead. He starts just below his neck, but quickly he’s in the middle of his chest. Welts rising up, then filling with the faintest drops of blood.

Aglas’ voices in the back of Harry’s mind is whispering that it’s time and he’s seen enough, but he digs his grip in and memorizes the sound of Geoff’s breath catching.

Harry wants to turn away. But there’s a tiny part of him, a little piece, with a voice so loud it roars in between his temples like thunder. It’s something raging deep deep down that sees every bit of this pain as recompense. When Liam’s dad starts to claw through the thin skin of his chest, he’s sobbing, bile seeping from the crease of his lips, pooling with the blood pouring into the ground around him. Muddy pink wings and his legs bent like a wounded snow angel.

It’s not long before the sobs turn to screams, and Harry can hear the commotion of neighbors coming outside to see what’s going on. There are loud gasps and hushed voices and eventually the glaring sound of sirens. But through it all, Liam’s dad is like a man possessed, digging into his chest like the pain is bearable if he can only get to whatever’s inside him. Whatever he’s trying to be rid of.

It’s a moment after that when Aglas just slides the crystal ball away from him. His vision doesn’t fade immediately, he gets a glimpse of two paramedics heeling it towards Liam’s dad, almost running, but then nothing.

When he looks up, Aglas is studying him with a look that’s strangely determined.

“So?” she says, tapping her finger on the table.

He has to swallow to make his mouth work.

“So he’s crazy now?”

Her thick sigh reminds him of every talk with his father he’d ever had about university. Harry’d talk for a few minutes. His dad would sigh. Talk a bit more. Another heaving, gargantuan sigh. As if Harry’s mere words were draining the life from him. University or nothing.

Aglas finger-walks her hand across the table to him, holds him to flip his palm up.

“This line,” she says gently, touching at the dark crease that trails from between his thumb and pointer finger down to his wrist, “means you’re daft. But loyal. Wide fucking eyes. I’d bet you Mr. Payne has the same line.”

After a moment of pregnant silence, he leans into her.

“But what does that mean? What does it have to do with _this_?”

The glare she gives him, he sort of expects. The exasperated groan and swat on his arm, he’s a little shocked by.

“It has _everything_ to do with it, Harry! You think Liam’s father was born a fisty little prick? No one’s born evil, kid.”

“I’m not saying-”

She swats him again, this time across his knee.

“Oh, you’re saying evil. Don’t try to lie to me. I’m not as dim as I look.”

To which, he’s not quite sure how to respond. At least, not sure what to say that won’t warrant another slap.

He has the eerie feeling that something important is happening around him, and he’s just shy of being in the know.

It’s not a feeling he’s unfamiliar with.

She pats the dark envelope again, the same she’d held up before when she’d spoken about his “friends in high places”.. whatever that meant. She hesitates. Suddenly, though, without a blink, Aglas says, “I’ll help you.”

He watches her eyes. Watches the way her bottom lip’s desperately close to being chewed through. “But you don’t want to.” He’s not even sure what she means by help. What he wants is beyond imaginable. The lowest of the low.

A dry, humorless laugh. “Am I that transparent? Yeah, I’ll help.”

“But you think I’m wrong?” Over and over again. His gut’s sinking, but he has to do it. There’s something in the pit of his soul begging him not to, but Louis’ there and hasn’t seemed to object yet, sitting on his shoulder, burning cool into the crook of his neck.

“I know you’re wrong,” Aglas says, “But I’ll help you cripple this guy. Why not.”

“Cripple?”

“If you’re going to get dirty, might as well take off your down-unders, too, yeah?”

“Go all the way?” Down, down, as deep as the Earth goes then deeper.

She smiles.

“You got it, babe. But you’re going to have to pay for it.”

In his mind, he sees his glaringly empty bank account. But Aglas assures him that what they’re discussing has nothing to do with earthly currency. She says you pay in eternity, pay with your soul. And Harry’s just tired enough, alone enough, to accept.

“It’s a trade,” she tells him, “You want to get the dad, you gotta’ give yourself up. It’s how these things work.”

“Myself?”

He can do that. He can _give_ that. A trade like they used to do in school. Ten gold stars for ten extra minutes of recess.

“How long?” he asks her.

She says, “You’d get about ten years before you had to pay up.”

He considers it for a moment. Considers if it’s worth it. Then turns back to her. “What do I have to do?”

\--

“The person coming for him.. Where are they gonna’ take him?”

It’s like Jesus doesn’t hear him.

Michael can count the number of times he’s seen this look on Jesus’ face on one hand. It doesn’t so much bother him as make him feel even more in the dark.

They’re whispering, on their way to the meeting.

What Michael wants more than anything is to talk to Jesus about Geoff, but he won’t. Not when Jesus looks like he might drop any moment, this vacant gaze, clearing his throat before he finally speaks.

“Do you remember- what I said? About Lucifer making his own savior for Hell?”

Michal says of course. How could he forget?

“That savior will be here today,” Jesus carries on, “Lucifer’s and God’s in one room.”

“They agreed to that?” Michael can’t imagine God or Lucifer wanting to have them both there. It was like finally airing the dirty laundry, wasn’t it?

Jesus looks like he might drop. “I’m bringing them- and someone else who played a.. part,” he says, “Maybe they’ll sway my father. Or Lucifer. ”

“That’s some incentive for you,” Michael says, whistles under his breath.

Jesus almost manages a smile, “Yes, I thought so.”

“Well, if this doesn’t work, nothing will. We’re up the creek without a paddle.”

There’s a tense set to Jesus’ shoulders. He seems to almost shrink into himself, though.

“It will work,” he tells him, reassures him.

It takes Michael a long time before he remembers what Jesus had said before, about God’s new savior.

“But Heaven’s new Jesus is in Hell right now, how are you going to get to him?” he says, voice rising.

Jesus nods like the weight of the world is on his shoulders. It hurts Michael to think that it’s probably true.

“Yes,” Jesus says, “the boy has been in Hell. I have my ways. A few.. friends, who owe me favors.”

“And Lucifer’s savior?” Michael asks, “He’ll be there, too, right? He can’t be in Hell right now. It’d be too easy. Has he been in Heaven this entire time?”

The thought unnerves him. Despite what Jesus had said about both saviors, Michael still didn’t like the idea of Hell having some cleansed healer coming up, no matter how _innocent_ Jesus assured him he was.

Jesus who now is sighing heavily.

 “Lucifer’s savior has been on Earth,” he says, “I’ve been trying to buy us some time by hiding him away. Hoping Satan would change his mind and the boy could have a second chance. But it doesn’t seem it will work out that way regardless.”

“Even if Lucifer and God drop their fighting? Both boys can’t just go back to being normal?”

Jesus shakes his head.

“I misjudged the extent of their.. connection.”

“Connection?” Michael asks, missing a step, “Connection to what? How could they possibly be connected? Heaven and- and Hell. They’re polar opposites.” Michael imagines Heaven’s second Jesus as a beacon light. Hell’s like something dark and deep and sinister, someone who can’t possibly understand what it means to be good.

“I don’t have time to explain,” Jesus tells him, “It will make sense later on, I promise. Soon. This meeting is the end,” Jesus’ voice is something tempered, but still powerful. When he leads Michael up to Heaven, Michael’s nervous. He’s almost so on edge, he could forget that Blue’s gone. To where, he has no idea. Taken. Lost, as far as he’s concerned. And probably never coming back.

The meeting’s in the usual room, with the same beings in their usual chairs. The only difference is that the table is moved back a bit more against the far wall, but Michael doesn’t mention it. He nods to God and Lucifer both, though only Lucifer replies.

\--

“Uh, it’s basically like.. Okay, you remember all of the last edition Thor comics where he somehow gets like warped to the volcano wasteland of the universe?”

Zayn almost makes an old man joke. Those comics were ancient even when Zayn was a kid. But he remembers right away that Logan’s sold his soul, and just nods instead. For all he knows, Logan could have had a first edition. Bought it at a dime store in some rundown town in America somewhere.

“Yeah,” he says, listening patiently, “One of Jupiter’s moons. Io, or something.”

Logan’s beaming. “Yeah, man. Io. Okay, so it’s this rock with millions of volcanoes that are like higher than Mount Everest and probably brimstone everywhere, you know, or like whatever else is around volcanoes, I guess.”

“Sure.”

“Well, that’s the first level of Hell.”

When Zayn nearly chokes, Logan stammers in.

“No, no, not like the _moon_ is Hell. Just- the first level of Hell is a lot like that. There’s a lot of fire and ash and rock and creatures that never see day light. It’s Hell in the horror movies and all of the scary stories we heard when we were kids. And the second level’s tame. No torture or anything. It’s where Hell keeps its paperwork. Astaroth is this Base demon in charge of making sure all of the souls go where they’re supposed to go and all of the demons get the payment they’re due.”

“And the third?” It’s killing him. Going through this step by step when all he cares about is where Liam is down there somewhere. The word torture feels like that first sip of brandy he’d tried when he was nine years old.

 Logan’s looking at him like he wants to take his time, like he needs to.

“The third is sort of weird,” he says, “I mean, not many souls go there. It’s.. hard to explain what it’s like. It’s different for everyone.”

Zayn rakes his fingers through his hair. Scratches down the back of neck.

“Just tell me. Liam’s going to be in bad shape.”

Finally, like pulling teeth, Logan groan-sighs his way through it.

“Third level’s like, hand-picked for each person. There are cells, yeah, but the third level is Lucifer’s playground. He doesn’t hold anything back.”

“So the worst?” Zayn nearly bites through his lip. He’d assumed as much.

Logan shakes his head.

“Yeah,” he says, “but it’s more than that. It takes your best memory, like your absolute best, and fucks it all up, just again and again for eternity. Like Saw on a loop.”

            By the time they’re in the alley, Zayn’s about ready to start throwing punches. He gets the same hesitation that he’d gotten from Logan.

Mullin’s kneading at the hourglass.

“You really want to see this Liam kid, don’t you?”

Zayn imagines he does something sort of like a nod. He’s not even aware of his body anymore, moving like he’s stuck in someone else’s dream. Want? It’s a cruel joke. He needs to. Needs like he hasn’t needed anything in so long. The same need he’d felt to stop Liam from pulling the trigger.

“It won’t be like Branden Payne. This is straight to Hell’s dungeons. Your boyfriend basically got the express ticket to a premium cell. Lucifer must not like him too much.”

_I know. I know._

And for a moment as soon as he’s down there, he thinks they’re wrong.

It _is_ just like when he’d gotten to see Liam in Sorting, everything is shrouded in a fuzzy grey mist.

            It feels familiar, which is terrifying. It feels like he’s been here before standing in this very spot. It takes a minute before it dawns on him where he is- Liam’s friend Harry’s old bedroom- but by then he’s gone ghostly pale, staring across to where Liam’s only a few paces away.          

            He catches his breath.

            “ _Liam?”_ But he can’t hear him. And Zayn’s not even sure he’d be able to respond if he could.

            Liam’s making these wet little gasps. Over and over, sobbing hiccups. Bent over on the bed on his hands and knees. He’s strapped in bands of thick leather, bound through with little snips of silver that dig into his skin just below the surface, anchoring him in like tiny little hooks. Tied to the headboard and the sides, his legs spread. Zayn recognizes Liam’s friend Harry only by his curls at first. He’s leaning over Liam, sliding into him.

            Each painful grunt Liam makes sounds like a shudder, his body rocking every time Harry thrusts up. He’s muffling through the gag, but it’s not desperate or scared. It’s like he’s trying to keep it down, make the noises as quiet as possible, suffer through until it’s over, his eyes screwed shut.

            And Zayn remembers Logan telling him it’s your best memory. This is Lucifer crushing it. Liam’s favorite memory being ruined again and again. The Harry _thing_ is speaking, slow low breathless words that must mean something to Liam- he chokes on a mouthful of blood, gagging it out beneath him. When he starts to sink down, he’s only dragged back up, the ties at his wrists pulled so tight, a few of the little hooks pull clean away, tearing chunks of skin along with them.

And Harry’s not the same little boy who’d stuck with Liam while he was being torn apart before.

            No, this Harry’s face keeps changing, twisting and breaking, dripping skin and bone until it’s a man Zayn doesn’t recognize, eyes so blue they’re almost clear like crystals. Then it’s Liam’s father, teeth digging into his bottom lip. Then a broad-shouldered monster with thick fingers like daggers shredding the skin on Liam’s hips. Tearing in until there’s blood dripping down the backs of his thighs. But it’s deeper than that, so much deeper. Zayn hears a million voices telling him he’s an idiot. Why didn’t he listen. 

            He can’t move, though. Can’t even look away. His mind keeps saying that it’s ridiculous. _Liam’s already dead. He can’t die again_. But every time the pounding speeds up and Liam’s eyes slip shut, he feels a little part of him start to tear away. Zayn’s losing him all over again. It’s the bathroom. It’s the demon with her fingers stretched out like tendrils and Zayn’s standing there, a hero with no power. He can’t do anything at all. He’s never been able to.

            Then suddenly it’s gone, just like that. He’s standing in the alley and Logan’s watching him, face full of concern.

            “Fuck, I told you, man,” Logan says, “Third level’s the pits.”

            Zayn just.. stares at him. Not sure he can find anything to say if he wanted.

            “Hey, it’s okay,” Logan’s whispering, “We’re going to get him back, I promise. We’re almost there. Just a little bit longer.”

Mullin’s rolling his eyes.

            “I told you, didn’t I? Happy memory?” He holds his scaled grey palm out, makes a quick fist, “Crushes it.”

\--

His wife stomps past him to the shower and slams the door in his face.

Greg resigns himself to deal with it later.

That’s how it works- being tauntingly close to forty with two daughters, a moody wife, and a little brother who might as well be your son. And of course said little brother’s best friend who’s taken to sulking in at all hours of the night, scaring everyone with odd talks about God and the devil..

He’ll deal with that later, too.

Greg’s sitting at the kitchen table now, nursing a gaping mug of the strongest coffee England has to offer and an even stronger migraine. Upstairs he can hear his wife on the phone with her sister and he sighs. It’s the third night in a row he’s felt like a stranger in his own home. Also the third night in a row he hasn’t seen Harry.

When he’d agreed to take him in- after Niall had patiently pleaded, not that Greg needed it. He would have taken Harry without a word after he saw his face, how broken he looked. No, he couldn’t have turned him away- but when he’d agreed to take him in, Greg hadn’t truly considered what it would mean. He knew Harry well enough. It wasn’t the largest city to begin with, and Niall never shut up about Harry and Liam like he worshiped the ground they walked on. So he’d heard about Liam dying and he heard the gossip as well. And now Liam’s father had been carted away to some hospital or asylum or other God-forsaken place. When people speculated this to their friends, they usually summed it up with a rather grim, “ _Good riddance”._

The fact of the matter is- Greg takes a sobering gulp of the searing coffee and winces- he feels responsible for Harry. Maybe not in the way he feels responsible for Niall, but he does. And the way Harry’s been dealing with Liam’s death is troubling, if speaking lightly.

Greg sips until the coffee’s gone. Resigns himself to deal with it later.

\--

Zayn’s too old to be this tipsy, blushing like he’s thirteen again after that first kiss, lying out on the floor of his first girlfriend’s room.

            It’s the same lightheaded easy sky-blue song now that it was then, the taste of whiskey- the good stuff. Logan has a cigarette between his fingers and Zayn plucks it away.

            “Things’ll fucking kill ya,” he tells him, breathes it into his lungs just a little. Just to remember.

            Logan only lights another, sips his rum and coke like he’s never tasted anything so indecent. But then he’s looking at Zayn from two feet away like he wants to sink into his lap, sink into his skin.

            “The fuck are you smiling at?” Logan tries to fathom into a sentence. Whines it out instead.

            Zayn just shakes his head.

            “You’re gone,” he says, “You’re fucking gone.”

            When he tries to take the cup from Logan’s hand, though, he only gets a hard slap to his arm.

            “This is only my third one,” he protests, “How much of that bottle have you gone through?”

            “I’m a fucking adult,” Zayn tells him.

            Logan glares, “I’m older than you, remember?”

            “You’re sixteen.”

            “Have been for a long ass time.”

            Zayn’s just about to argue this point, when something small and black falls, honest-to-God, right from the ceiling.

And something about a chaste letter from the heavens helps them to sober up pretty damn quick.

In careful, intricate letters on the page are a handful of words.

            _There’s a meeting next Sunday. HC. Be there._

            Zayn just stares at it. Logan nearly has a conniption.

            He shrieks, “Holy shit” before clambering over piles of things to drag out an old pair of jeans. He digs through the pockets until he finds a crumpled piece of paper.

            He presses the page down on the bed next to the new letter. Zayn looks at them from over Logan’s shoulder, waiting for whatever revelation he’s trying to gather from it all.

            “It’s the same,” Logan says, “I mean, the last letter, the writing. I don’t know, it’s like- the same guy wrote this.”

            Zayn says, “So Jesus.” 

            “That’s what Mullin said, right?” Logan rakes a hand through his hair, drops the pages into his lap like dead weight, “Fucking hell.”

            “But HC,” Zayn asks, “What’s that mean?”

            And Logan, without the slightest intention, makes a face that reminds Zayn so much of Louis. When he’d been so clueless about Heaven and Hell and Purgatory.  Logan’s face scrunches up, too. “HC is High Council, man. How do you not know that?”

            Zayn chooses to ignore the attitude in his voice, and just leans in a bit, touching the letter’s corner like it’ll ground him.

            “But what _is_ it?”

            “It’s..” Logan pauses, just long enough to glance quickly down at the letter again, “High Council’s the big three. God, Jesus, and Lucifer whenever something massive happens and they have to all sit down and come to an agreement about how to handle it.”

            Zayn wants to ask like what, but Logan follows it up with, “Like the holocaust? So many people died these gruesome deaths, but thousands killed themselves, too, you know? The High Council had to decide if those suicides counted as usual straight-to-Hells or not, given the circumstances.”

            When they’re lying in bed later, the alcohol finally catching up, Zayn feels bubbly enough to smile and nudge Logan’s hip. “So we’re going to Heaven.”

Logan’s squirming out of his jeans. His boxers sink down a little with them.

            “Well, we’ve got to figure out how we’re getting there first,” he says.

“Jesus invited us.”

            “Yeah, but he didn’t say anything about helping us get there. I’ll talk to Mullin, I guess. We’ll figure it out.”

            Zayn summons the mental clarity to recall how much it had been to go to Hell. To bring Branden Payne up for only a few moments.

            _Can we afford that?_ he wants to say. Logan beats him to it.

            “Shit, man,” he groans, jeans down around his ankles. He has his hands up under his neck, “It’s going to be so much. Mullin’s gonna’ want so much more than vials for this.”

            “How much more?”

            “I don’t know,” Logan says, and Zayn can see him working it out in his head, trying to decide if it’ll even be worth the five years Jesus owes him.

\--

Harry sinks into the sofa, too exhausted to even consider washing up. Today had been.. the longest day of his life. Aglas had spent hours explaining things to him that made no sense at all. Things about Jesus and Heaven and Hell and what he’s getting himself into by choosing this fate, by choosing to give up his soul so Mr. Payne can spend eternity in the pit.

The last of it had been the strangest, but he hasn’t felt so happy in as long as he can remember.  Aglas had explained the high council through a mouth full of cake, and he’d had so many questions about how they would get there and what it would mean, that he hadn’t left until it was well past midnight. He’s just kicking his boots off when Niall comes down the stairs rubbing at his eyes.

            When he sees Harry, he slows a little.

            “What time is it?” Fraction of a thought, cut off mid-sentence by a gaping yawn.

            As if Harry has any idea. Time is this out-of-body experience. Midnight until the memories are gone.

            He shrugs. “Late?”

            Niall laughs, scratching at the skin beneath the band of his boxers.

            “Fucking is,” he says, and before Harry can protest, he’s coming over to sit beside him on the sofa.

            Niall lets out an all-consuming sigh and for one terrifyingly awful second, Harry’s afraid the “It gets better” speech is about to follow.

            _God save me_ , he thinks, Niall’s bare chest heaving while he hikes his shorts up to sit cross-legged on the sofa.

            “Weirdest shit, man,” he says, “You’ve been here for weeks and I feel like I haven’t talked to you in ten years.”

            “I’ve been- busy,” Harry says, “Stuff. On my mind. I don’t know.”

            “I guess I get that, yeah.”

            “Yeah.”

            They small-talk their way through ten whole minutes before Niall just watches him like he’s scared Harry will crumble away right there. A few words and he’ll shatter, a million pieces into the upholstery.

            “I miss him, too, you know?,” he says, “It’s not just you, Harry.”

            A weightless silence. Harry unbuckles his belt and squirms out of his jacket and sweater. He’s just about to speak when Niall turns to look at him again- Or maybe he’d been looking the entire time. Waiting for Harry to say something, anything.

            Niall’s a decibel below conversational, like they’re boys again, whispering secrets in the dark.  “Liam’s dad’s in the hospital.”

            Harry trains his eyes on the coffee table like the red-stained oak will change his life.

            “I heard,” he says, too slow, unpracticed, “Is he going to be okay?”

            Niall’s laugh this time is nothing like it was when he was a kid. It’s a sound that’s so purely adult Harry forgets to preoccupy himself and looks to Niall instead, who laughs like he couldn’t possibly fit another ounce of sarcasm into it.

            “Like you give a shit.” Sarcasm, but no malice. They’ve known each other too long for that. Niall knows Harry hates Mr. Payne. Maybe not as much as he truly does, as deep as it gets, but he does know that much.

            “Whatever,” Niall adds like an afterthought, “I heard he’s in bad shape. People are saying he tried to kill himself.”

            _No, it was worse than that_ , Harry thinks, _like he was trying to claw his way into his chest. Or dig something out._

He buries the thought as quickly as it comes.

            Niall’s still talking. “I know you don’t care.”

            Harry has to make a tremendous effort not to tune him out.

            By the time he slips back in, Niall’s saying that it’s not healthy. His exact words. Not healthy. For Harry to be so fixated on the idea of Liam’s dad as some homicidal lunatic.

            “You’re obsessed, man,” he says, “You’re losing it.”

                And all Harry can do is listen and bite his tongue because he knows, better than anyone. He’s going to make it right, too.

            By the time Niall leaves and Harry’s alone, all he can think about is how easy Aglas had made it seem. Telling him how Hell wasn’t easy to get to from Earth, but from Purgatory, it was a cakewalk. And getting to Purgatory was nearly impossible for most living people, but Harry was special. He’s seen death already. For him, getting to Purgatory wouldn’t be hard at all. And, she’d told him, chubby little hands settled on his thighs, “And Liam’s dad’s soul is waiting for you nice and tight in Purgatory, babe. Just deserves or whatever.”

\--

 

            Zayn’s just waking up when Logan’s walking through the hotel door.

            He’s carrying a tray of coffees, but Zayn feels a little stab of annoyance when Logan tells him where he went first. To Mullin. And he says it so casually.

            “Without me?” Zayn asks, probably squeezing the life from the cheap styrofoam cup.

            Logan just gives him a strange look.

            “Yeah, alone,” he says slowly, “Dude, I’ve been going alone for years. Way before I snagged you.” After a pause, he adds, maybe a bit more hesitantly, “I showed Mullin the letter. And the weirdest fucking thing?”

            Zayn sips, tries to shake the feeling that he’s _actually_ losing it, “Yeah?”

            “He said it’s the second one he’s seen.”

            Zayn just blinks at him.

            Logan shakes his head, smiling. “I mean, as in Jesus gave another, “Come to the head council meeting” letter to someone else.”

            “What? _Who_?”

            Logan shrugs, sips. “No idea, but we’ve got it all set up. Two days and we’re all going to Heaven.”

            A million years ago, in a different life, Zayn would have been happy to hear those words. But right now in the moment, he’s dreading what it all means. This is the end, truly.

            Logan keeps talking, and Zayn listens. From a thousand miles away, but he does. Only coming back when Logan laughs sort of bitter.

            “The price is fucking insane, though,” he’s saying.

            Zayn asks, “Mullin’s price?”

            “Yeah, to send us.”

            The way Logan grumbles, Zayn has a brief terrifying image of Mullin showing up in the alley with a chainsaw. Stark speech as he explains that the price to get into Heaven is a few severed limbs.

            Logan trails on, though, looking at Zayn like he’s not sure how much to say.

            Eventually he settles for, “I think he’s scared,” And Zayn just blinks back at him.

            “He’s a fucking demon. What could he be scared of?”

            It takes about a split second for Zayn to realize how stupid the question is. High Council’s God, Jesus, and Lucifer. Of course, he should be scared. Helping a couple of half-dead guys crash the big boss’ secret meeting had to be high on the fucked list, even for seedy creatures like demons.

            Zayn considers, “Might be why he’s charging so much, right? ‘S pretty risky.”

            Logan’s shaking his head before Zayn can even get it all out, “No, it’s not that,” he says, “Mullin made it seem like it was us. I don’t- I don’t even know how to say it. Like there was something wrong with us, like we’d have a harder time than usual getting into Heaven. Considering..” he motions to Zayn’s hollow soulless chest, “He made such a fucking deal about it, too. I told him we’d just find someone else to take us, and he laughed.”

            The way Logan looks at him, Zayn can feel a chill creeping up the back of his neck. _Us_ , he’d said. Something wrong with us. But Logan’s eyes are boring into him, and Zayn thinks it must be just him.

            “Was that all?”

            Logan shrugs. “Sure, yeah. Well, I mean he went on with his whole _blah blah you don’t know how important Zayn is_ thing, but that’s nothing new.”

            For a moment, neither says anything. But Logan makes a face and nearly chokes on his next sip.

            “No, no there was- something else,” he says, between coughs, “It’s insane, but I don’t know. He said- said there was a lot of talk downstairs about God and Lucifer being in a war.”

            Zayn sits up straighter. “A war? Are you serious?”

            “Wait, wait, no. Not a war, sorry, I mean, like a really big really stupid argument that sort of involves a lot of people not getting into Heaven.”

            Zayn sits with that for a few moments. Thinks about the ghostly grey people floating around in a daze.

            “But what’s so important God would shut Heaven down?”

            Logan makes that same face again. Like he wants to say something, but he’s deciding against it, filtering it for Zayn.

            “Apparently, God’s sick of Jesus or something.”

            “Huh?”

            “I don’t know, Mullin was pretty confused about it himself, but that’s it in a way. Everyone’s saying that God’s tired of Jesus and tired of humanity and tired of just everything, so he’s not letting any new people into Heaven. And it’s been for a while, it seems.”

            Zayn leans back until he’s against the head board. Tries to imagine how it’s all been working since then. People die and either go straight to Hell or they roam around Purgatory and Earth for eternity. It seems weird, sure. But not world-ending weird. After everything, his scope of right and wrong, of, absurd and acceptable, everything had changed.

            “He sounded pretty nuts, honestly, but when I started thinking about it on the way back, it sort of made sense.” His voice is something hollow and heavy, “What did it take to make Jesus, anyway? Someone pure, right? Someone perfect who suffered a lot. A sacrifice, you know?”

            Zayn remembers the pounding sound of a bullet in a tight white space. Liam’s father’s face like he was seeing his son for the first time.

            “And it’s well, it’s like- Okay, it makes sense that it’s Liam, doesn’t it? His dad is possessed to be a total asshole. His only two guardians get shafted before they can save him.”

            Zayn adds, “But Liam’s in Hell, though.”

            Logan rolls his eyes, “It’s just a theory, alright?”

            He shakes his head, like he’s trying to work it out still. He stands and starts pacing at the foot of the bed.

            “So Liam’s.. Jesus?” Zayn says.

            Logan half-smiles, a little hesitantly. “Does that sound too crazy?”

             And Zayn thinks of course not. Crazy’s lost all of its meaning after everything that’s happened to him since he died and saw Purgatory for the first time.

            “That’s not even the weirdest thing, though. Mullin said the whole new Jesus bit, but he said Lucifer didn’t like it, so he sort of- joined in?”

            Okay, well _that_ Zayn doesn’t accept so quickly.

            “Lucifer?” It’s hard to say without picturing a slim man in a tux with red skin and a pitchfork. Then a slender woman in a long black dress with thin fingers..

            “But it makes sense, though,” Logan adds, “why the High Council would be meeting. I mean, both Heaven and Hell are making saviors and we’re assuming Liam is God’s, right?”

            Zayn shrugs, sure.

            “Well, then yeah, God’s Jesus is in Hell right now. And I’m going to assume Lucifer doesn’t have his either. Maybe he’s in Heaven, I don’t know.”

            He pauses for just a second and lets it settle in around them, this new idea. This calm little twist of fate. The amazing part, the part that really shakes him, is how easy it feels. Of course there’s this new piece on the board. Of course Liam’s not just a boy with a shitty life. Of course he’s something other worldly.

            Logan shakes him from this thoughts.

“Wow,” he says, like he’s been sitting on it for a moment, “Can you imagine how fucked up Lucifer’s savior would have to be?”

            Zayn feels a little nudge of pain between his ribs.

            “Yeah. A fucking wreck.”

\--

“This and then we go to get your friend,” Aglas promises, then adds a bit quieter, “Are you sure? It’s not too late to change your mind. This is.. It’s a big deal, baby. You gotta’ know that. A big fucking deal.”

            No, Harry’s not sure. But he can’t stop. Even when every bone in his body is screaming at him to just wait. Even when Louis’ been completely silent through it all, coppery and cold against him.

            He snatches the cage and curls it close to his chest, closes his eyes.

            “Think of something terrible, love,” Aglas says.

            “Like what?” A plump, clammy hand on his forearm.

            “Something that makes it worth it. I don’t know, babe. It’s between you and the light.”

            Harry squeezes his eyes shut tighter, tries to remember how Liam hadn’t said a word but he hadn’t even needed to. How Harry had mumbled through it all, holding him so tight he thought he’d shatter in his grip, the scars and bruises stretched out over his skin. Reminders, every one of them.

            He feels pressure on his chest. It’s faint, then it’s gone almost instantly. When he opens his eyes, he’s standing on the edge of a clearing by a line of scraggly black trees.

            There’s a cool breeze blowing, the sun just starting to set behind a little building just off to his right. It’s a bit worse-for-wear like Aglas had told him it would be, with an empty bell tower on top. No windows, not even a door really, just a slab of wood practically stapled to its hinges.

            When he walks inside, it’s empty. Chairs lined up in rows in front of a desk that’s bare except for a glass jar with a tiny blue light inside, a scrap of paper sat in front of it.

            When he reads it, his hands start to shake. He has to ball them into fists to keep them steady when he opens the cage and holds it out, flips the jar right over it. Shakes it hard until Liam’s dad’s light plops out, nowhere to go but the little golden prison.

            Harry watches it throb out in frantic bursts of pure white, nudging the frail bars only to jerk back at the sudden snips of electricity.

            He mutters the last words so much louder than necessary, trying to drown out the light’s desperate little whimpers. Reminding himself again and again that this is Liam’s dad and that he’s a monster. That he’s doing this for Liam and that’s the only thing that matters.

            Harry sets it down at his feet, watches anxiously when the light starts to dim and the cage blurs, so much he can see the wood floor beneath it. More and more until it’s gone, trapped in Hell where it belongs. The highest level- “ _Suicide_ ,” Aglas’ voice, “ _Bestiality, Murder_.”

Harry walks away without looking back.

\--

            When Mullin starts to come through the brick, Zayn and Logan have been standing in the alley for a few minutes already.

            From the dark, they can make out a woman with the body of a boulder, walking arm in arm with a boy who’s got nearly two feet on her. His face is down, but Zayn would recognize that hair anywhere.

            “Harry?”

            The boy’s head snaps to him, “Do I know you?”

            _Of course you do, I’m Zayn_ he starts to say. Nearly does. Before Logan gives him a strange look and he remembers he’s only ever seen Harry through Liam. That he watched his life from Purgatory, that he doesn’t know him at all.

            _And neither does Liam_ a small voice whispers in his ear, _Liam doesn’t know you_ _either_.

            Mullin shushes the lot of them quickly.

            “Payment first. Questions after.”

            Between the two of them, Logan and Zayn offer forty-two full vials and twenty-five years. Logan chucks in his dagger, too. They’re piled at Mullin’s feet.

            Harry and the woman with him drop vials, but nowhere near as many. When Harry digs in his pocket for the last one, a piece of paper falls out with it, nothing but “Luke 6:36” scribbled out hastily.

            The woman reaches right into her cleavage and plops down a wad of papers. All oddly-shaped clumps in a dozen different colors.

            Harry holds his light in his palm then so close, and whispers with his eyes shut.

            “ _It’s alright_ ,” Zayn makes out, just that a few times before Harry’s holding him out to Mullin who seems to dip his fingers right inside. He comes back with a piece of _Louis_ in his palm. A little blob of light that he presses into the ground with their payment. Logan has to dig his nails into Zayn’s arm to stop him from saying something.

            Mullin rolls his eyes.

            “Do you want to go, or am I going to have to suffer questions first? He’s tainted,” he huffs, motioning in Harry’s direction, “Even more than you two imbeciles, believe it or not. Payment’s a bit higher.”

            Zayn only stares back, “Tainted?”

            Under his breath, Logan says, “ _He’s done some evil shit_. _He can’t go to Heaven easy like us, or whatever_.”

            Mullin writes something on the inside of his left wrist then with a pen he drags out from his trouser pocket. It’s just a sketch of a dove, like the ones Heaven’s letters are sealed with.

            “Alright, who wants to go first?”

            Harry steps forward.

\--

            Zayn’s the second. Then Aglas. Then Logan.

            Zayn recognizes at least one face immediately, sat around a table full of scattered papers.

            “Michael,” he mumbles, almost uncontrollably, staring back at him.

            Michael nods out a quick, restrained greeting.

            The other faces around the table are new, but Zayn doesn’t need any help sorting out who’s who.

            Jesus looks the youngest first off, maybe even younger than Zayn, but with a frown that ages him. God is a glowing presence. Zayn has to fight the urge to kneel. Lucifer’s pasty white, tailored and prim, set in his chair with the haughtiness of someone who’s used to sitting on a throne.

            He doesn’t seem surprised to see them there, smiling at each in turn. For Harry, though, he spares a wink, but Zayn’s too worried about other things to wonder why.

            God’s.. Well, God, it seems, would rather drink battery acid than even meet any of their eyes.

            He turns to the others at the table.

            “What is this?”

            “I called for them,” Jesus says. Logan and Zayn glance to each other. _The letters_ , Logan’s saying wordlessly, even though they’d pretty much known, now they can be sure, _Jesus did write the letters._

            What that means for them, Zayn doesn’t really have a moment to work out. He’s staring off where dangling near Lucifer’s shoulder are two lights.

There’s a tiny grey one. Then next to it, a light so dark it makes God’s skin look like milk. He nudges Logan.

            “That’s my soul,” he whispers, “And Liam’s.”

While he’s watching, his light swoops down just a bit to nudge Liam’s, lift him up a little. When they touch, their colors blur. Liam’s murky grey swirling through Zayn’s, Zayn’s ink tanning Liam with patches of darkness, shiny black pebbles, Dalmatian spots.

Lucifer’s eyes are gold. For a while, that’s it, they’re gold. But the next time Zayn looks they’re onyx black. Then white as snow or green like wet leaves when he smiles.

There are glasses in front of each of them, but Jesus and Michael are the only men who don’t seem to be sipping. Lucifer’s taking these delicate little tastes. God’s on his third glass, back stiff. He’s offering glares to both Lucifer and Jesus. Michael he completely ignores. 

“We should continue,” Jesus says.

Lucifer pats on the edge of the table with his finger, “What were we on about now? An agreement?”

“With this nonsense?” God asks, waving a hand in the humans’ general direction.

Jesus’ voice is a little lower, a little less calm, “They play a part. Very important parts.”

Something in his words must mean more than it seems because God and Michael both look up then to where Zayn is fidgeting and struggling not to say what’s on his mind. When God’s eyes fall on him, he shivers.

God puffs up his chest.

“This your pet?” he turns to Lucifer and the hole in Zayn’s chest starts to ache, “In the flesh?”

There’s something smug about the way God says it, like Zayn’s just the disappointment he’d been hoping for.

Lucifer’s almost too handsome for his own good. When he smiles, though, it’s hard to forget that he’s the king of Hell.

“Where’s yours?” he asks, “Oh, right. He’s been with me. Since Jesus is interfering, let’s see whose is in better shape.”

Zayn looks to his left just long enough to see the woman beside Harry drop a hand around his slim waist.

Something starts to.. grow beside Zayn then. There’s the thick contrast of a shadow, a lump of grey that just keeps getting darker and darker and clearer and clearer until it’s a body, a long frail frame half-clothed and ruined, barely breathing.

It takes Zayn a moment to realize it’s Liam. Liam _here._ He feels the same pull, same heartbreaking rush of relief and anger and sadness that he felt before in Purgatory, watching Liam through the veil. Only now it’s so much worse, so much stronger. Concentrated maybe, seeing Liam here for the first time in the flesh. He has the numbing urge to drop to his knees. But even then, before he can move, Harry’s throwing himself down on the floor beside him, practically suffocating Liam in kisses, holding him down like he’s scared he’ll disappear.

God’s face before had been a mask of irritation, but he comes alive when Liam materializes. For a second, Zayn’s almost convinced he’ll stand up and walk over.

Lucifer talks right above their thoughts. “Unfortunate that he ended up with me, isn’t it?”

And there’s chaos for the next few minutes.

God is seething, shouting, stabbing a finger in Jesus’ direction. Lucifer is all out laughing.

They go on like this for so long, Harry has to practically scream over them to be heard.

He asks them, with a voice so restrained Zayn can barely sense the rage beneath it, how long they plan on acting like children.

In the pause that follows, a small slow voice speaks up and everyone turns to stare at Michael, half-forgetting he was even there to begin with.

It’s Michael then who reminds them that they’re here so God and Lucifer can come to an agreement. Decided what to do with the problems they started.

God shakes his head. “I won’t reconsider.”

Logan’s voice now. “Just.. a few years. You can’t give up yet. It’s not fair.”

“I’ve waited,” God says.

Logan takes a step forward.

“Fine, but what about the people in the middle? They’re just floating around on Earth right now dead, you know? They should get Heaven.”

If his sincerity sways any of them, it certainly isn’t God. He simply says, “No,” still watching Liam like he wants to walk over and touch him to see if he’s actually real.

“I’ll take those in Sorting now,” he says suddenly, “If they’re on Earth, I don’t want them.”

Lucifer sits up a little. Smiles like he’s just heard good news.

“Well, it just so happens, I don’t object to wandering souls at all.”

God waves his hand around, “Then they’re yours.”

“And the boy?” Lucifer asks then, straight away. So fast it makes Zayn feel sick. It’s like they’re marking things off of their check list. Liam’s dad? _Hell._ Dead souls? _Lucifer._ Liam?

God bristles, “He’s mine. He’s still mine.”

Jesus touches his arm, “We’re trying to have peace here, father.”

Lucifer puts his hands up in faux surrender, “If it means anything, I’ll let mine go for a while as well. We’ll even the playing field.”          

            “More than that,” Zayn clips out before he can stop himself.

            They all turn to him.

            “It has to be more,” he makes himself say, “You have to open Heaven again.”

            Logan steps into his space, and he’s thankful for it. Especially when Lucifer full out laughs.

“I’m willing to wait then,” Lucifer says, same humored tone to his voice that’s never gone away, “If _he_ is.”

It takes Jesus nudging God a few times before he agrees. Though not without a fairly murderous glare in Zayn and Logan’s direction.

And it’s over just like that.

Lucifer whispers something under his breath and Zayn’s light snaps up like it’s woken from a dream. It scoots over to him dizzily, but instead of sinking into his chest like he’d thought it would, it grows lighter and lighter, widening out until it wraps him up like it had before in Sorting ages ago. When he’d gone to try and save Liam before it was too late.

Now though, he doesn’t go anywhere, but when he unbuttons the top of his shirt, he’s whole again. His chest no longer hollow as a drum, and he _feels_ whole, too. Like if he reached inside, there’d be something to connect it all instead of empty space and puss.

Liam’s light scoots over to him next. But it’s not like Zayn’s. It doesn’t wrap around him. It sinks into his chest slowly, so slowly Liam takes a few deep breaths all the while, watching it with these dazed eyes like he’s still not sure where he is or if it’s safe.

Harry pets him, soothing his hair down, rubbing at his arms. Avoiding the worst of the gashes and bruises, soothing the ones that aren’t skin deep.          

Michael says, with a voice much calmer than he feels, “So are we making this official now?”

There are nods around the table.

A page is passed around, a makeshift agreement to cease and desist. Before anyone signs, Harry steps forward with his hand half-raised. He drops it a little when God turns to him.

“I just want to get him home,” he says, Liam hacks into a wet cough right on cue, “We don’t need to stay, do we? For this?”

Lucifer starts to speak, but Jesus talks first.

“We should have at least one stay. A witness.”

The last thing Zayn wants is to stick around here more than he needs to. Watch Lucifer’s eyes change a few more colors. Get that prickly feeling on his skin whenever they’re bright gold and trained on him.

“I’ll stay,” Logan offers, maybe catching Zayn’s hesitation.

There’s a pause, then God pulls a pen out of nowhere and the next thing Zayn knows he’s on Liam’s front porch with Harry holding Liam in his arms, rocking him back against his chest like an infant.

He’s humming, sort of. This in between song and just mumbles of words and Zayn feels so out of place. Like he’s watching something he shouldn’t be.

Harry pauses just long enough to tell him they keep the extra key in the mail box before Liam’s breathing speeds up a little. These panicky gasps like he’s inhaling water. Then Harry’s humming again and it fades away. 

When they’re both inside, Zayn says he’ll just wait for Logan to make it back. He doesn’t have to wait long. Logan doesn’t just appear like Zayn had thought he would. He drives up, his headlights beaming so bright he shields his eyes.

 Logan smiles, nods to the house, “How is he?”

Zayn shrugs, “I never went in.”

Before Logan can call him a wimp, Zayn clears his throat.

“How much time do we have for God and Lucifer bitch it out again?” he asks.

Logan kicks at the ground just off Liam’s wide front porch, spewing gravel a bit with his converse.

“A couple centuries,” he says, sighing, “Going total’s 500, but it’s God- he’s not exactly notorious for having much patience.”

            Before he drives off, Zayn asks him to stay. Tells him he needs him. Gets damn close to begging.

            Logan just cups his cheek and smiles.

            “Z, I’ve got stuff to do, you know? I can’t stick around,” but his dark eyes are bright like he’s as close to breaking down as Zayn feels right now.

            “Did Jesus give you your years?” then adds, “Are you going to get more time?” he asks, even though he already knows the answer.

            Logan just nods, pulls away a little.

            Then he’s smiling again, “Hey, maybe I’ll go full hog this time. Get enough to still be kicking when God shows up for round two. We can tag team that fucker.”

            “Five hundred years?” Zayn asks breathlessly, “That’s insane. You’ve already got- what? 250?”

            Logan just shrugs, “It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do.”

            “It’s Hell, though. It’s not- I don’t know, it’s not fucking easy.”

            If Zayn’s protests make a difference, Logan doesn’t let it show.

            He’s still climbing behind the wheel of his ridiculous car. Still smiling like he’s headed for Cancun instead of a dark alley to make another soul sacrifice.

            But Zayn doesn’t worry too much. Tucked in his pocket he’s got a slip of paper with Logan’s verse on it, and Logan has the same with his. If he needs him, he’s just a meet and greet with Mullin away.

            Zayn stays out for a while longer after Logan drives off, giving Harry and Liam as much time as they need. When he eventually steps inside, the entire world is lit with the creamy pink of sunrise. He walks in slow.

            He almost calls out to Louis. Almost mentions the light. _Heaven,_ he wants to say, _Eleanor, the edge of a cliff_ , but bites down on his lip and calls Liam’s name instead. Louis doesn’t remember him after all. Probably never will.

            “Liam?”

            It echoes back to him, the house dark and frigid.

            He walks through the living room where Harry’s splayed out on the sofa covered in a couple of blankets with more piled up on the floor a little further away. He’s breathing deep, clearly exhausted, so Zayn tip toes his way past to the kitchen in the next room over.

            He doesn’t make it far before he sees Liam huddled in the corner by the sink, the jacket wrapped around himself, the claw marks up and down his thin legs all the more visible now without the shadows, the dried blood and come and vomit crusting up along his inner thighs like rose petals.

            “ _Liam_?”

            His voice cracks a little, still raw from saying goodbye, but he reaches out for him only to stop short when Liam jerks back.

            “Who are you?” he asks, eyes wide and afraid, “I don’t know you.. Harry says, but I don’t-”, hugging himself close like he can’t get warm enough no matter how hard he tries. The tips of his curls are stiff and catch the light, icicles still hanging on the strands, his lips thin lines of pale blue, framed by old scars and fresh gashes. Zayn wants to touch him.

But Harry’s steady breathing keeps him grounded, keeps him sane. Louis’ golden light shining through faintly from the next room making Liam look almost whole again, half-alive. Making his skin nearly the same tan it had been _before_.

            “I’m your angel,” he says gently, choking back everything else, “I’m Zayn. You don’t know me, but I’ve been..” He pauses, unsure how to say it. To say everything. To explain.

            “You killed my dad?” Liam says, still watching him, “Harry told me he died.” It doesn’t sound angry, or even relieved. It’s the calm almost eerily simple voice of someone who’s given up.

            Zayn shakes his head.

            “I didn’t. But I’m sorry.”

            Liam blinks, “But you were with him?”

            “Liam, there’s-”

            “Weren’t you?”

            “No, I was with a friend,” Zayn says slowly, gently, shaking his head, “Your dad got in the way of something.. It wasn’t his fault. It was.. bad.”

            Liam starts to shiver even harder then, his teeth chattering, breaths foggy like he’s still out in the cold.

            “My mother?” he manages.

            Zayn shakes his head.

            “Never saw her. I wasn’t in Heaven for that long. I didn’t get a chance to look around or anything. But she’s probably fine,” he adds, forces himself to hold Liam’s gaze, “You’ll see her again someday.”

            Liam seems to settle with that, let his body rest a little, not as rigid as before.

            When Zayn stands and holds his hand out, Liam takes it. He rocks back a little, but when Zayn tries to steady him on his lower back, Liam pulls away.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, “I know you’re.. helping. I just don’t..”

“No, it’s fine,” Zayn reassures him though his chest is aching, leads him by the hand over to the sofa, “It’s okay.”

Liam instantly lies down on the floor there, wrapping his arms around his chest, just staring up at the ceiling unblinking. Zayn grabs a blanket from the pile and drapes it over him, careful not to let his hands linger too long, afraid Liam will push him even further away.

But once he’s done, he doesn’t know what to do. Whether it’d be better to stay, or give him space.

Harry shifts and moans in his sleep. Louis bobs up a little only to plop back down when Harry stills. He nestles onto Harry’s shoulder and Zayn blinks past a few unexpected tears. Liam yawns.

Then Harry turns, his hand falls over the side of the sofa and Liam reaches for it right away. Holds it so tight, Zayn can see the white of his knuckles. Like it was all he needed, Liam closes his eyes and his breathing starts to even out a little.

It’s another few moments before Zayn can manage to get his legs to work again. He’s nearly out of the room before he hears a soft voice calling his name.

Unsure, uncertain. Throaty like Liam’s just beginning to cry.

“Zayn?” he says, low and tentative like he’s still trying to get used to the sound of it on his tongue, “You can stay. If you want, you can..”

When Zayn starts to walk back, Liam moves over a little, squeezing in to give Zayn room under the blanket.

“Just, please don’t..” he starts, watching Zayn’s hands.

Zayn shakes his head, “I won’t,” he says in a way that he hopes is comforting, “Promise,” and Liam falls asleep like that. With Harry’s grip like an anchor, Louis a comforting ephemeral night light, and Zayn the guardian he’d never had. A little too late, but here. Here as long as Liam needs. In the flesh finally instead of the background.

 Zayn spends the entire night resisting the urge to just give in and touch him. Run his hand over Liam’s shoulder, down the strong line of his jaw. Trace the dark mark of the mole near the base of his neck.

But if Purgatory had taught him anything, it was how to wait. And if he’s learned anything from Logan, it’s that sometimes waiting is the only part that matters. And if his gut is right, this tight painful knot telling him to hold his breath, then the waiting is the only peace they’ll have before the end.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

.          

 

 

 

           

 


End file.
